The air inside the Kowloon office was thick and heavy, smelling of stale cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey. Jason Lam, a man whose tailored silk suits barely contained the coiled menace underneath, slammed his phone down. It skittered across the mahogany desk, a brief reprieve before the leader of the Gold Street gang and revered Hung Kwan (Red Pole) of the Sun Yee On Triad erupted.
"冚家拎!" (A curse on your family!) Jason roared in cantonese, his chair scraping violently backward as he surged to his feet. He snatched the phone and hurled it with blinding speed across the room. It shattered against the wall with a sickening crack, the sound echoing his sudden, terrifying fury.
Samuel Wong, Jason's long-suffering second-in-command, and three burly bodyguards, all waiting uncomfortably on leather couches, shot upright as if pulled by invisible wires. They exchanged nervous glances, a Jason Lam outburst never bode well for people near the epicenter.
"Boss, what is it?" Sam asked, trying to keep the tremor from his voice as he approached the desk. "What went wrong?"
Jason's eyes, usually calculating and cold, were burning with a dangerous heat. "The contract killer," he spat, the word laced with venom. "The useless gweilo from the Bratva failed. Miserably! They didn't finish the job, and now… now we have lost the favor of Ocean Star." He ran a hand through his slicked back hair, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. "Ocean Star, who, I remind you, is backed by high ranking members of the CCP."
Sam's face went instantly pale, the blood draining away to leave his complexion the color of ash. He was the one who had personally negotiated the terms, the one who had vouched for the Bratva's reliability.
"That is impossible," Sam stammered, pulling out his personal cell phone even as he spoke. "Aleksey assured me he was sending Prizrak (The Ghost) for the job. He is their best man. Someone who has never failed an assassination request."
He frantically dialed Aleksey Zotov's secure burner number. The call went straight to voicemail, then another, then another. Sam's jaw tightened. A few excruciating minutes later, he lowered the phone, the digital screen reflecting the horror in his eyes.
"I… I can't reach Aleksey, Boss. His lines are dead."
Jason Lam looked at him, and the pure, concentrated loathing in that gaze was a physical weight. Sam knew, instinctively, that his own life was now balanced on the sharp edge of his leader's wrath.
"It is already too late to fix this failure," Jason hissed, leaning in over the desk. "Ocean Star has already lost the bid to TLG. The disgrace is ours. You," he pointed a stiff finger directly at Sam's chest, "you salvage this mess. Recover the half a million dollars we paid to Aleksey and bring him before me."
He didn't need to state the consequence if Sam failed to retrieve the money or Aleksey. The unspoken threat was a chilling promise of a watery grave in Victoria Harbour.
Sam nodded frantically, a sharp, nervous jerk of his head. He spun on his heel and rushed out of the office before Jason could change his mind and execute him on the spot.
Sam burst out onto the chaotic, neon drenched backstreets of Tsim Sha Tsui, the pressure of his leader's expectations a physical burn on his skin. He signaled aggressively to one of his waiting drivers to bring the black Mercedes around, simultaneously dialing another number on his encrypted line.
"Lu!" Sam barked into the phone, his voice tight with desperation and command. "Track Aleksey Zotov's location, now! Drop everything!"
On the other end, Lu, the gang's chief hacker, answered with a lazy, annoyed complaint. "Ah, Sam... I'm in the middle of manipulating a high-value crypto launch, this is fifty million, man, it can't wait—"
"I don't care if you're fixing the goddamn NASDAQ!" Sam roared out a few choice curses, censoring himself only slightly. "You get your entire team on finding Aleksey Zotov! You have one hour, or they will be fishing your fat body out of Victoria Harbour in the morning, along with the morning catch!"
Lu yelped audibly on the line, the sound of scrambling immediately replacing his earlier bravado.
Sam disconnected and hurried back inside the building, heading toward the small lounge where most of the off duty gang members were nervously congregating. "How many of you have passports on you right now?" he yelled, his eyes sweeping the room.
Several men raised their hands.
"All of you... follow me. Bring those documents. We're moving."
Outside in the alley, the black Mercedes was waiting, flanked by his two most trusted, hulking bodyguards, both armed and silent. Sam instructed the trailing men: "Grab taxis. Follow the car. We're heading straight to Chek Lap Kok Airport."
Inside the sedan, speeding across the highway towards the airport, Sam felt a creeping wave of dread. He ran the failure over and over in his mind. Betrayal? Could Aleksey Zotov simply have run off with the half-million retainer? It was unlikely, too risky for a major Bratva player.
The far more probable, and terrifying, conclusion was that Prizrak, The Ghost, had somehow failed his assignment. And in his world, a failure this big meant a massive, irreversible consequence. He had to capture Aleksey and deliver him to Jason, alive, to atone for this catastrophe.
His phone buzzed. Lu.
"Sam! We got a ping!" The hacker's voice was high pitched and frayed. "We were able to lift a transaction trace from one of Aleksey's fake identities. He was at Sheremetyevo Airport in Moscow yesterday, buying a one-way ticket…" Lu paused, as if afraid to say the next word.
"Where?!" Sam snapped.
"Manila."
So something did go terribly wrong, Sam thought, the icy realization settling deep in his gut. A panicked flight across the continent confirmed his worst fears.
"Lu," Sam commanded, his mind already calculating the logistics of the hunt. "Purchase ten airline tickets to Manila for the next available flight out."
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A wave of humid, tropical air slammed into Aleksey as the automatic doors of Ninoy Aquino International Airport hissed open. He paused on the curb, stripping off his heavy, high-collared overcoat, a necessity for the Russian cold, but ridiculous in the Manila heat.
Immediately, a shadow detached itself from a pillar, a young man, eyes wide with opportunistic hunger, fixed on the expensive material and the large pockets of the coat. Aleksey didn't move. He simply fixed the would-be thief with an icy, surgical stare, the kind that promised swift, professional violence. The young man hesitated, his bravado evaporating under that cold gaze, and quickly scurried back into the anonymous crowd.
Aleksey gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head, amateurs.
He called for an airport taxi, giving the driver the address for his preferred Makati bolthole, and settled into the back seat for the long, slow crawl through Manila's notorious traffic.
He reached for his phone, dialing a number that bypassed standard lines. It was answered on the second ring.
"Anton Kuzmin," a voice answered, heavily accented.
"Антон! Мой друг" (Anton! My friend), Aleksey greeted him in Russian, the warmth in his voice a stark contrast to his demeanor moments ago.
"Алексей, это действительно ты?" (Aleksey? Is that really you?) Anton, the Cultural Attaché of the Russian Embassy, and plant of the Solntsevskaya Bratva, sounded genuinely surprised. "Are you in Manila?"
"I just exited the airport," Aleksey confirmed. "I need us to meet at the usual place tonight, if possible. And I'll be needing a standard welcome packet for this trip."
There was a brief, pregnant pause on Anton's end, likely checking a calendar or a surveillance feed. "Two hours. I will meet you there."
"Excellent. One more thing. Given the circumstances, I think I'll need a guide. Make that two guides."
He ended the call, the question of the missing assassin, Mikhail, already beginning to simulate in his mind. Aleksey ran through the permutations: capture, double-cross, or death. Each possibility was cataloged and ranked by threat level.
The airport taxi finally pulled up to the imposing facade of The Peninsula Manila. Aleksey checked into an Executive Suite with practiced efficiency, then retreated to the quiet sanctuary of his room to wait.
Thirty minutes later, the room phone rang. Aleksey instructed the front desk to send up his guests.
A short while later, a firm knock sounded on the heavy mahogany door. Aleksey opened it and greeted Anton Kuzmin with a genuine, warm hug and a solid pat on the back.
Anton entered, followed by two massive men whose sheer size seemed to shrink the luxurious suite. Aleksey nodded approvingly at the two hulking figures.
"Aleksey, allow me to introduce Peytr and Yuri," Anton said, his eyes alight. "Both are formerly of the elite PMC, the Wagner Group. Excellent company."
Aleksey shook each man's hand, their grips were bone-crushing, professional. He invited them to take seats in the suite's elegantly furnished living area. As soon as they were settled, Aleksey reached into a small shopping bag, retrieving a dark bottle of Meukow Cognac. It was a small luxury he'd bribed a stewardess to carry for him.
"Ah, Aleksey! My favorite!" Anton cried out in genuine delight.
Aleksey smoothly uncorked the bottle and poured a generous measure for each of the four men. He raised his glass. "To good health, friends old and new, and profitable ventures." After a short, appreciative sip, the pleasantries ended.
"Anton, the reason I need your help is Mikhail," Aleksey began, his tone immediately businesslike. "He is missing. I need your embassy contacts to track him down."
Anton nodded, already anticipating the request. "Do you know which identity he used to enter the country?"
Aleksey shook his head, taking a measured sip of the cognac. "It doesn't matter. If necessary, you have clearance to burn Mikhail with the local authorities. He is either dead, captured, or has betrayed the Organizatsiya. In any case, we cannot leave a loose end."
"That makes our job significantly easier," Anton acknowledged, already reaching for his phone to place an encrypted call to his contacts inside the consulate.
While Anton spoke in rapid, low Russian into his device, Aleksey turned his attention to the two formidable bodyguards.
"Mikhail explained the situation?" Aleksey asked.
Both men nodded in unison. "We are aware you are an Avtoritet (Captain) of the Bratva," Peytr stated, his voice a low rumble. "We have no problem working for you, as long as we are compensated properly."
Aleksey smiled, a genuine flash of teeth. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and produced two large, unmarked envelopes. He handed one to each man. "This is half your fee. The second half you receive the day I depart for Moscow."
Peytr and Yuri discreetly peeked inside their envelopes, their stern faces breaking into satisfied, grim smiles.
"Are you expecting heavy action during your stay?" Yuri asked, his gaze direct.
Aleksey paused, considering the threat from having to silence Mikhail if he was alive. "There is a possibility," he conceded. "Mikhail is former Spetsnaz, 346th Brigade. You need to prepare for the possibility that we will have to deal with Mikhail himself, or more likely, the people who killed or captured him."
Both men nodded grimly, exchanging a sharp glance that spoke volumes of shared experience. "Don't worry," Peytr assured him. "We will be ready."
Anton finished his call, setting his phone down. "The embassy people are already on it. We just need to wait for their report."
Aleksey raised his glass again. "Then we sip, enjoy our cognac, and speak of old times while we wait."