Location: Teach Mharcus, Dún Bráonach, Ireland
Date: January 22, 2019
Time: 10:00 GMT
Alen stood on the rusted iron balcony of the estate, looking up at the gray Irish sky. The wind whipped his trench coat around his legs, but he didn't feel the cold.
Below him, deep beneath the limestone crust of the earth, lay the "Jackpot." The Marcus facility was a marvel of 1960s paranoia and genius—a biological fortress capable of weathering a nuclear winter. But right now, it was a corpse.
It was a Ferrari without an engine.
The servers were silent monoliths of dead silicon. The wiring in the sub-sectors had rotted into copper dust. The old diesel generator he had jump-started was a temporary band-aid; if he pushed it past 40% capacity, it would throw a rod or generate a thermal plume visible to every spy satellite from Langley to Moscow.
Alen had the money—millions siphoned from The Connections and his own mercenary war chest—but he had no men. He couldn't just hire a local contractor to rewire a secret bioweapons lab. He needed a specialist. He needed a ghost.
He needed Mateo Cárdenas Ortega.
Alen pulled a heavily encrypted satellite phone from his Legacy Bag. He stared at the blank screen, his mind drifting back. Not to the recent past, but to a lifetime ago. To the moment he became a traitor to save a soul.
FLASHBACK: Operation PHANTOM STRIKE
Date: December 24, 2004
Location: The Ortega Compound, Chihuahua, Mexico
Time: 14:00 CST
The heat was oppressive. Dust hung in the air, coating the back of Alen's throat.
"Remember," Miller, the CIA team lead, whispered into the comms. "Recon only. We negotiate for the drives. We exfil. Clean and quiet."
Alen, then just twenty years old and working under a deep-cover contract, adjusted his suit. He felt the phantom itch of danger at the base of his neck. The compound of Mateo Cárdenas Ortega—known in the underworld as "El Fantasma"—was less a home and more a fortress.
They were ushered into a lavish office. Ortega sat behind a mahogany desk. He wasn't the monster the briefings described. He looked like a scholar, calm and precise.
"The representatives from EuroTech," Ortega said, his voice smooth. "Your interest in our... archival services... is well-timed."
Miller began the scripted lie. Alen scanned the room. Eighteen minutes passed.
Then, the world turned to fire.
BOOM.
A shaped charge detonated in the north wing. The diversion. Miller didn't flinch. He kicked over the briefcase, revealing not cash, but compact MP5Ks.
"PHANTOM STRIKE is a go!" Miller screamed. "Terminate Ortega! Move!"
Alen froze. Terminate? "Miller, the brief was recon!" Alen snapped, drawing his sidearm reflexively.
"New orders from Langley," Miller barked, spraying bullets into the hallway. "He's too connected. Burn it down!"
The mission collapsed into a slaughter. Alen moved through the chaos like a machine, his body reacting faster than his mind. He cleared the hallway, taking down Ortega's guards with surgical precision, but his mind was racing. They lied.
He reached the upper floor. He fought through the smoke, engaging Ortega's head of security in a brutal hand-to-hand brawl on the balcony, finally sending the man over the rail. Breathing hard, Alen kicked open the door to the panic room. Rifle raised.
And he stopped.
Ortega was there, hands up. But behind him, huddling in the corner, was a woman clutching a newborn baby. And clinging to her leg was a little girl, no older than six, staring at Alen with wide, terrified eyes.
"Please," Ortega begged, his voice cracking. The crime lord was gone; only a father remained. "Kill me. But let them go. They are innocent."
The little girl wiped a tear from her cheek. In that face, Alen saw himself. He saw the innocence his adoptive mother, Jessica, had tried so hard to preserve in him. He saw the cycle of violence waiting to claim another generation.
I won't make another orphan.
Alen lowered his rifle. "We have six minutes," Alen said, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "Is there a way out?"
Ortega blinked, stunned. "The kitchen... behind cold storage. A tunnel to the river."
"Go."
Alen grabbed a dead guard from the hallway, stripping the bloodied jacket. He threw it on over his suit. "When I start shooting, run. Don't look back."
He pushed the family into the hall. He raised his weapon and fired—not at them, but into the walls, creating the chaotic sound of a firefight. He herded them to the tunnel entrance.
Ortega turned back one last time. "Who are you?"
"A man who believes children should have fathers," Alen replied.
Ortega pressed a blood-smeared note into Alen's hand. "I am in your debt. You are my brother now."
The tunnel door closed. Alen turned back to the kitchen. He located a propane tank and fired a single round into the valve. As the gas hissed, he tossed the guard's jacket into the center of the room.
Then, he did the hardest thing. He raised his pistol, aimed at the meat of his own left bicep, and pulled the trigger.
CRACK.
Pain, white-hot and blinding, dropped him to his knees just as the propane tank ignited.
The Ghost in the Machine
Present Day – Ireland
Alen rubbed the faint, circular scar on his left arm. Ortega had kept his word. He had vanished, rebuilding his empire in the shadows, becoming a legend in engineering and logistics. He believed Alen Richard died years later in Edonia, during the Blue Umbrella incident.
Alen sat down at the makeshift command terminal in the manor. He opened the digital blueprints of the facility. Before he made the call, he needed to know exactly what he was asking Ortega to build.
"Trinity," Alen said. "Display Project Heartbeat. Final Architecture."
The holographic schematic illuminated the dusty room. Alen analyzed the four tiers of power he had designed. This was black ops engineering at its finest—a system designed to be invisible.
Project Heartbeat: Power Architecture
* TIER 0 — DORMANT CORE (The Existing Reactor)
* Asset: Umbrella Independent Micro-Nuclear Reactor (SMR).
* Status: SCRAM engaged. Control rods locked.
* Strategy: Do Not Touch. Restarting it now would create a radiation signature that would light up DSO sensors instantly.
* TIER 1 — THE MUSCLE (Primary Day-to-Day)
* System: Hybrid Diesel + Battery Microgrid.
* Components: Military-grade Lithium-Titanate Battery Vault & Silenced Diesel Generator.
* Stealth: Generator runs 1 hour/day to charge banks. Thermal plume masked by soil temperature fluctuation.
* TIER 2 — THE LIFEBLOOD (Continuous Silent Power)
* System: Subterranean Micro-Hydroelectric Pump.
* Source: An Fuilchiúin (The Black Pond).
* Role: Powers life support, the AI (Trinity), and security sensors. Infinite 24/7 output.
* TIER 3 — THE MASK (Passive Camouflage)
* System: Photovoltaic Slate Roof Tiles.
* Role: Powers the surface house and trickle-charges the batteries. Look like standard gray slate to satellites.
"It's perfect," Alen whispered. "A living system."
But he couldn't build it alone.
The Call
Alen routed the signal through seven proxy servers—Singapore, Caracas, Moscow, Reykjavik, Dublin, Madrid, and finally, a secured satellite phone in a vineyard in Valencia, Spain.
Ring... Ring...
Location: Valencia, Spain. Time: 11:05 CET Mateo Cárdenas Ortega was older now. His hair was graying, but his hands were still strong. He was working on a vintage tractor engine, enjoying the peace he had bought with his silence.
His secure phone buzzed. A distinct pattern. Three short. One long. Mateo froze. He dropped his wrench. That was a dead frequency. Only one man had that code, and that man had died in an explosion in Edonia six years ago.
He wiped his grease-stained hands and picked up the phone. "¿Diga?" Mateo said, his voice cautious.
"The kitchen in Chihuahua," Alen's voice came through, distorted but unmistakable. "The propane tank was a bit dramatic, don't you think?"
Mateo stopped breathing. "Impossible," Mateo whispered. "I saw the reports. Operation Ghost Walk. The explosion in Edonia. You... you are dead, hermano."
"I got better," Alen replied dryly. "I had to stay buried, Mateo. To protect my family. To protect you. John Michael Kane is dead. But the man who saved your daughter is still here."
Mateo let out a shuddering breath. "My daughter... she is twenty now. She is studying architecture. She is alive because of you."
"I need to call in the debt, Mateo."
Mateo's demeanor shifted instantly. The retired mechanic vanished. El Fantasma returned. "Name it."
"I found a facility. Ireland. It's... complicated. It needs a heart transplant. Nuclear, hydro, hybrid-electric. I have the blueprints, but I need the hands. I need the best engineer in the world."
"Is it dangerous?"
"Extremely."
"Is it for the good fight?"
"It's the only fight left."
Mateo smiled, a fierce, predatory grin returning to his face. "I was getting bored of tractors anyway. Send the coordinates."
"Ortega," Alen added, his voice softening. "Come alone. Bring your tools. And bring warm clothes. It's cold at the edge of the world."
"I am on my way, Ghost."
The Resurrection Begins
Alen hung up. He looked out at the desolate Irish landscape. He had the location. He had the plan. And now, he had his architect.
"Trinity," Alen commanded. "Unlock the heavy freight elevator in the hangar. We have incoming cargo."
≪ Acknowledged, Master. Shall I prepare the guest quarters? ≫
"Yes," Alen said, turning back to the dark, silent lab. "And wake up the fabrication units. We're going to be busy."
The Resurrection of Teach Mharcus had begun. The tomb was about to become a war room.