July 21, 2025 · Restricted Hangar, Outskirts of Havana, Cuba · 10:30 CST
The Night-Wing settled onto the hidden landing pad with barely a whisper, its stealth rotors folding away as the automatic hangar doors rolled shut behind it with a heavy metallic thud. The facility was buried deep in the Cuban countryside, camouflaged by dense palm groves and old sugar-cane fields — a black-ops bolt-hole arranged months ago through Rebecca's quiet DSO contacts.
Alen stepped down from the cockpit, the matte-black titanium of his prosthetic arm catching a sliver of tropical sunlight before he slipped it into the pocket of the Midnight coat. He walked straight to the cargo bay and climbed into the Bentley Continental GT. The door closed with a solid, luxurious thunk. The cabin enveloped him — cold matte black leather, faint gold stitching, the soft blue ambient glow. Trinity's voice purred through the speakers.
≪ All systems nominal, Master. Stealth mode engaged. ≫
The engine came alive with a near-silent hum. He eased out of the hangar onto the narrow coastal road. Then he pressed the accelerator and triggered the hidden wet nitrous system.
"Phase."
The cold-shot kicked in — 250 horsepower of silent, invisible thrust. The Bentley surged forward with predatory grace, the world blurring into streaks of emerald greenery and turquoise ocean. Palm trees whipped past. The road hugged the coastline, waves crashing on one side, dense tropical foliage on the other. Alen's hands rested lightly on the wheel, titanium fingers making micro-adjustments, expression unreadable behind the wraparound sunglasses. No tension. Only the calm, clinical focus of a man who has already mapped every turn, every blind spot, every possible ambush.
Minutes later the road widened and Havana appeared.
The capital unfolded like a living postcard under the bright Caribbean sun. Colonial buildings in faded pastels — pink, yellow, turquoise — lined the streets, balconies overflowing with laundry and potted plants. Classic American cars from the 1950s rumbled past in a rainbow of restored chrome and paint, their engines growling like old lions. Street vendors called out in rapid Spanish, the air thick with roasted coffee, sea salt, and fried plantains. Music spilled from open windows — son, rumba, salsa — mixing with children's laughter from the narrow alleys.
The matte-black Bentley moved through the chaos like a ghost. Heads turned. An old man in a guayabera shirt stopped mid-step and stared openly. Alen didn't notice and wouldn't have cared. He drove with the same unhurried precision he used in everything — scanning rooftops, checking mirrors, noting every face that lingered a second too long.
The centre console chimed softly. The holographic monitor flickered to life. Rebecca appeared in the medical bay back at the temple, hair tied back, still in the simple sleeping gown from earlier.
"You arrived safely," she said, the relief controlled but present.
Alen kept his eyes on the road. "Yes. I'm in the city. Driving."
Rebecca studied his face through the feed — reading the jawline, the posture, the things he would not say. Then she delivered her next statement with the specific calm of a woman who has already run every counter-argument and pre-empted them all.
"I have someone waiting for you at Santa María del Mar. She is your partner on this."
Alen's titanium fingers tightened a fraction on the wheel. "I told you. Solo mission."
"I know you did," Rebecca replied, tone brokering precisely zero argument. "She will handle you. Go and meet her."
Alen looked at the feed for exactly two seconds. Then he looked back at the road. She had, as always, already won the conversation before he arrived in it.
"Fine," he said. "Take care of yourself. I'll update you."
He cut the feed. The monitor faded to black. The Bentley accelerated again, nitrous kicking in as he turned onto the coastal highway heading east.
∗ ∗ ∗
Beach Santa María del Mar · 11:05 CST
The drive from central Havana to Santa María del Mar normally took thirty to forty minutes. Alen made it in under ten.
He parked the Bentley in a shaded spot behind a cluster of palm trees, the matte-black body almost invisible against the dark foliage. He stepped out, the Midnight coat settling around him, red interior lining flashing briefly like a warning. He deployed four palm-sized micro-drones from the boot. They rose silently, invisible against the bright sky, forming a protective perimeter around the meeting point.
He walked down the stone path toward the shore. Gentle waves rolled onto white sand. A few locals at the waterline. The tourists not yet arrived.
Then he saw her.
Ingrid Hunnigan stood at the edge of the waves, letting the water lap at her black wedge heels. A vibrant, retro-inspired ensemble that blended perfectly with the Cuban atmosphere — an off-the-shoulder black blouse with short ruffled sleeves, a full-circle red skirt to mid-calf printed with bold abstract motifs in black and teal, flaring dramatically with every breeze. A crown of deep red roses woven into her wavy brown hair, a black lace fan held delicately in one hand.
She noticed him immediately. A small, knowing smile curved her red lips.
"You came quickly," she said as he approached.
Alen stopped a few paces away. "Hunnigan. Why are you here? Shouldn't you be in the DSO office?"
Ingrid closed the fan with a soft snap and walked closer, the red skirt swaying. She stopped just in front of him, close enough that he could smell the light tropical perfume.
"They gave me leave. Too much depression and tiredness after the last few months. Rebecca sent me. I'm your official handler — unofficially."
"Alright," Alen said.
Ingrid stepped closer, eyes moving over his face — the sharp jawline, the platinum-gold hair slicked back clean, the blue eyes behind the dark lenses. She reached up, fingers brushing his cheek with surprising gentleness.
"You've changed," she murmured, voice low. "But I know exactly who you are."
She rose on her toes and kissed him — deep, slow, and deliberate. The world narrowed to the warmth of her lips, the faint taste of salt and lipstick, the press of her body against his. For one brief, electric moment Alen's iron operational focus fractured. The mission parameters flickered like static. The kiss lingered, intense and unhurried, until Ingrid finally pulled back, smiling up at him with a mix of satisfaction and mischief.
"Let's go," she said softly, tracing a finger along his jaw. "We have to find Cindy Lennox."
Alen blinked once. The operational mask returned instantly, sliding back into place with the ease of something that has been practiced for twenty years. "Yes. Let's go."
He turned and walked toward the Bentley. Ingrid followed, the red skirt swirling around her legs as she matched his stride. He opened the passenger door for her with mechanical politeness, then slid into the driver's seat.
The engine purred to life. Alen pulled out onto the coastal road, the matte-black car gliding through the colourful streets of Havana like a shadow among the vintage cars and laughing crowds.
The phantom and his unexpected partner were on the hunt.