Twelve hours before the summit opening, the entire city was enveloped in a tense calm.
Main roads were cleared, explosion-proof barriers lined the sides, soldiers from the Special Forces in black combat uniforms stood behind them, fingers rested on the trigger guards, their gaze scanning every corner of the street.
In the sky, three armed helicopters formed a triangular formation for low-altitude patrols, the roar of the rotors overshadowing the original hustle and bustle of the city, yet unable to suppress the gunpowder scent of ambition permeating the air.
In the security command center on the lower level of the "Feathered Serpent Temple," Casare, with an unlit cigar in his mouth, stared at the giant screen composed of hundreds of surveillance feeds.
On the screen, every entrance, passage, even ventilation shaft of the summit's main venue "Phoenix Nest" was monitored in real-time, red warning lines intertwined into a web on the map, covering the entire core area.
