The air in Aleksey Zotov's private office, high above the frantic pulse of Moscow, was thick and motionless. Outside, a miserable sleet feathered the panoramic glass, but inside, the temperature felt like it was plummeting toward absolute zero. Aleksey, a lieutenant in the formidable Solntsevskaya Bratva, stood by his desk, the fine wool of his suit jacket suddenly feeling like a damp, suffocating burden.
Forty eight hours. That was the window.
Forty eight hours had passed since the last communication from Mikhail Vasilyev. Mikhail, nicknamed Prizrak (The Ghost), was the organization's best asset. An assassin who killed so quickly and quietly, his victims sometimes only realized that they were dead minutes after he had already killed them. And now, that same Mikhail was missing.
Aleksey wasn't just nervous, he was deep in a tight, internal panic. The assassination contract Mikhail was carrying out was strictly unauthorized. It was a rogue operation initiated entirely under Aleksey's direct authority, a move that could see him exiled to the tundra or, more likely, simply vanished.
The request had come from a long-time acquaintance, a fixer within the Sun Yee On Triad, operating out of Hong Kong. The job was simple, eliminate the CEO of Transnational Logistic Group and ensure no trace led back to the Triad. For this service, Aleksey had been paid the staggering sum of half a million dollars, deposited into an anonymous swiss account just four days ago. It was a ridiculous amount of money to take a contract out on a mere CEO of a shipping company. It should have been a cause for alarm and raised a red flag the size of a billboard, but Aleksey, driven by greed and the promise of clean, untraceable cash, hadn't asked questions. He'd simply ordered his most capable man to do it.
Mikhail's last message had been a smug, arrogant audio clip: he had arrived in Manila, found his target, and observed him. "Генеральный директор, Уэс Чай, — просто посмешище, Алексей. Абсолютно никакой защиты. Я смеюсь, предвкушая, насколько лёгкой окажется эта задача." (The CEO, Wes Chai, is a joke, Aleksey. Absolutely no protection. I'm laughing at how easy this assignment is going to be.)
Silence since then. No check-in, no coded completion signal. Just silence.
The expensive mobile phone on his desk, customized with heavy encryption, suddenly screamed to life. The caller ID flashed VIKTOR.
Aleksey snatched it up, forcing his voice to adopt an even, slightly aggravated tone. "Что я могу для тебя сделать, Виктор?" (What can I do for you, Viktor?)
Viktor's voice, a gravelly boom even over the secure line, was already laced with fury. "Где, чёрт возьми, Васильев? Я двенадцать часов пытаюсь до него дозвониться. У меня для него кое-что важное, а он не отвечает. Ты не знаешь, где он?" (Where the hell is Vasilyev? I've been trying to get through to him for twelve hours. I have something for him. Something important, and he's not answering. Do you know where he is?)
A cold sweat broke out on Aleksey's back. He feigned ignorance flawlessly. "Mikhail? I haven't seen him since he went to the shooting range two days ago. Said he was taking a few days of R&R. What is this job, Viktor? Why the rush?"
"It's not just a job, you idiot! It came directly from Andrei Sokolov himself! Vasilyev was supposed to be wheels-up four hours ago!" Viktor roared, referring to the Pakhan, the absolute boss of the organization.
The mention of the name Sokolov nearly short circuited Aleksey's spine. An order from the Pakhan meant this wasn't just a missed job; it was a glaring, unforgivable act of insubordination tied directly to Aleksey's management of personnel.
"Damn it, Viktor. Okay, okay, calm down," Aleksey placated, rubbing his temples to sell the performance of annoyance. "I'll have my men start searching for him immediately. I'll track his burner numbers. He's probably just with a woman, you know how he is."
"You find him, Aleksey. Now! This is on you," Viktor snarled, and the line went dead.
Aleksey dropped the phone onto its cradle. The feigned calm evaporated, leaving behind a raw, frantic fear. Vasilyev wasn't with a woman. Vasilyev was either dead or worse detained, and the loose thread he represented was about to unravel everything.
He walked quickly to his antique oak filing cabinet, bypassing the drawers that held paperwork, and opened the hidden panel at the bottom. Inside, nestled beneath a leather bound book, was a worn Russian passport. He pocketed it instantly.
He needed to find Mikhail before anyone else in the Bratva did, and most critically, before they found out about the unauthorized assassination on a foreign CEO named Wes Chai. That Triad money suddenly felt like a chain around his neck.
Aleksey didn't spare a moment for an assistant or a packed bag. He grabbed only his car keys and his wallet and immediately headed for Sheremetyevo Airport to catch the first available flight to Manila. The clock had already started.
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The air conditioning in the waiting room of the Autoridad del Canal de Panamá (ACP) Administrator was a cool contrast against the oppressive Panamanian heat outside. Michael Gao, General Manager of Ocean Star, sat on a leather sofa, his tie feeling tighter than necessary, a damp film of nervousness clinging to his forehead.
He glanced sidelong at the man seated beside him, his assistant, Thomas Lin. Thomas was a physically imposing man, broad across the shoulders, wearing a suit that did little to conceal the underlying menace of his build. A jagged, silvered scar cut a severe path over his left eyebrow, giving him a perpetually thuggish and impatient look.
"你肯定嗎, Thomas?" (Are you certain, Thomas?) Michael whispered in Cantonese, wiping his palms subtly on his trousers. "Absolutely certain our contact ensured we would secure these last few transit rights?"
Thomas didn't bother to lower his voice much, simply offering a grim, almost predatory smile. "Relax, Mr. Gao. I have been given assurances. The matter has been… handled by our friends. They made certain that Ocean Star would be the only major player bidding for this final slot. You have nothing to worry about."
Relief, thin but potent, washed over Michael. He took a deep, steadying breath, settling back into the chair. The transit rights, the coveted time slots for moving vessels through the restricted canal, were the lifeblood of any major shipping corporation. Securing this last batch meant the difference between massive profit and being stalled by the competition. He waited, composing a look of professional confidence, ready for the Administrator's secretary to call his name and finalize their lucrative agreement.
Thirty minutes later, the door to the inner office clicked open. The Administrator's secretary, a woman whose professional calm was unnerving, entered the room and approached Michael.
Michael instantly rose, plastering a wide, confident smile onto his face, ready to shake hands and receive the final contract for signing.
"Mr. Gao," the secretary said in English, her voice perfectly modulated, "I sincerely apologize for the delay."
Michael waved a hand dismissively. "No apologies necessary. We are ready to finalize our partnership."
The woman's expression remained perfectly neutral. "Unfortunately, Mr. Gao, I am afraid I have bad news. The additional transit rights have been awarded to another company."
A pit of cold, nauseating dread formed instantly in Michael's stomach. He felt the air drain out of his lungs.
"That is impossible," Michael sputtered, his professional composure shattering. "You must check again with the Administrator. There must be a mistake."
The secretary offered another cool, practiced apology. "There is no mistake, sir. The Administrator confirms that a competing bid was submitted, an offer far more attractive than the one Ocean Star provided for the additional transit rights. Both the Administrator and the Board of Directors have already voted to award the slots to the new party." She gave a final, stiff nod, then pivoted and exited the room, leaving the sudden, absolute silence in her wake.
Michael stood motionless for a beat, his vision tunneling with fury. Then he whirled on Thomas.
"You worthless dog!" he shrieked in Cantonese, his voice cracking with rage. He began raining blows down on Thomas's thick shoulder with his heavy leather briefcase, the sharp edges impacting with dull, satisfying thuds. "What happened to the guarantees?! Where are our 'friends' now?! You guaranteed we would be the only major bidder! What happened?!"
Thomas raised an arm defensively against the furious assault, his face twisted in bewilderment and pain. "I don't know, Mr. Gao! I swear I don't know!"
Just as Michael wound up for another strike, the imposing mahogany door to the Administrator's private office opened.
The sight instantly froze Michael mid-swing.
Out stepped the Administrator himself, his arm linked in a familiar, friendly manner with a slender, impeccably dressed woman. They were laughing easily, talking with the casual familiarity of old business partners or friends.
It was Dana Hardridge, TLG's Vice President for Corporate Affairs and, more relevantly, the Michael's bitter rival when it comes to contract negotiations with state-level entities and companies.
Michael instantly dropped his briefcase, his face twitching as he struggled desperately to regain his composure. The Administrator and Dana glided past the door of the waiting room, barely breaking stride.
The Administrator saw Michael, and his smile dropped into an expression of mock solemnity. "Ah, Mr. Gao. How unfortunate. I sincerely regret that Ocean Star was not able to win the additional transit rights this cycle."
Dana, however, offered a predatory, mocking wave. "Don't worry, Michael," she said, her voice dripping with mock friendliness. "There will always be more opportunities for Ocean Star in the future."
Michael's jaw clenched so hard he could taste blood. He forced a stiff, biting acknowledgment. "I acknowledge your good fortune, Dana. And I congratulate TLG on their successful bid."
Dana only smiled, a perfect, victorious slash of red lipstick and the pair disappeared down the hallway.
Later, in the tinted silence of their armored car, as it sped back towards the airport, Michael's rage had settled into a dangerous, icy calm.
"Thomas," Michael said in Cantonese, his voice low and trembling. "Inform our 'friends' in Hong Kong. Tell them we did not secure the transit rights because of their failure. Tell them this will not go over well once it is reported to the head office."
He looked out the window at the distant, sparkling azure line of the canal, a gateway now slammed shut in Ocean Star's face. Heads will roll for this and unfortunately he meant that quite literally.