The once bustling Denny's was now wrapped in a heavy silence, broken only by the low hum of the air conditioning and the crackle of two-way radios held by nervous security guards. Shards of broken plates and upturned chairs littered the tiled floor, creating a miniature battlefield of splintered wood and ceramic dust.
Mall security, clad in ill fitting white and blue uniforms, had arrived, but the three gigantic men on the ground who were still groaning and nursing various fractures and contusions, were too much for them to manage. None of the guards dared approach the large Russians, instead they stood back in a nervous semi-circle, their radios chirping radio talk and code with an unseen security office. The local police, were predictably operating on Manila time and were nowhere in sight.
Mina sat alone at a corner table, arms folded tightly across her chest, anxiously watching her uncle speak to the restaurant manager. His posture was easy and relaxed, but the tone of his voice was steady and quietly authoritative. Every precise gesture, every measured word, gave a different impression from the charming uncle who secretly checked on her every night and cooked her breakfast each morning.
The heavy glass doors at the restaurant entrance swung open.
The air in the room didn't just shift, it compressed. A tall intimidating man in a perfectly tailored, charcoal navy suit strode in, flanked by two equally serious, blank-faced assistants. His pale, angular face carried the impatient, detached expression of someone long accustomed to command, inconvenience, and the absolute power to make problems disappear.
Mina caught the harsh biting tones of spoken Russian as he turned sharply to his aides: "Где они?" (Where are they?)
One of the men on the floor, the largest one Wes had taken down first, stirred and managed a weak, guttural reply.
The diplomat's eyes swept the wreckage of the dining area, his gaze clinical and disgusted, then they stopped abruptly on Wes.
He froze for a fraction of a second. Then, the stern expression softened into something like genuine surprise, followed by a brief, humorless laugh. "Боже мой… Уэс Чай!" (My God… Wes Chai!)
Wes turned, the corners of his mouth lifting in a faint, knowing acknowledgement. "Иван Петров. Прошло много времени." (Ivan Petrov. It's been a while.)
Mina blinked, leaning forward. He knows him? The more time she spent with her uncle, the more layers he seemed to reveal.
The two men met near the counter and clasped hands firmly, forearm to forearm, a grip more professional than friendly, yet warm with the unspoken weight of shared history.
"What are you doing here, my friend?" Wes asked in fluent Russian, his accent refined and polished.
"Getting my ass saved by you, apparently," Ivan replied, his tailored lapel perfectly straight. He glanced down at the moaning men. "These three idiots belong to one of our oligarchs, Andrei Sokolov. Perhaps you know him? He's in Manila for a meeting he wants to keep off record. These men are supposedly part of his security detail. The embassy got a call from the Philippine National Police about a major incident involving Russian citizens, so naturally I came to handle it before the press catches wind of three drunk bytovki beating on local kids."
Wes glanced dismissively at the groaning, mass of bodies. "I never met the man, but I know his reputation. It's not a very good one. I guess dogs really do take after their master."
Ivan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in practiced frustration. "Sadly, that is the case. That man has a habit of causing problems wherever he goes, but unfortunately, he has strong ties with the current ruling party in parliament, United Russia. We were notified beforehand to extend him every courtesy."
That earned a quiet chuckle from Wes. "In other words, you were told to clean up after him."
"You realize if these men are arrested and this hits the morning news, it will be a diplomatic circus, yes?" Ivan's tone was accusatory, though his eyes held amusement.
"I figured as much." Wes's voice was light, but his eyes were sharp, already calculating the currency of the favor. He looked pointedly at the restaurant manager and the mall security head, both nervously waiting for instruction. "Give me five minutes, Ivan. I'll take care of this end."
He stepped aside, pulling his phone from his pocket. The calls that followed were astonishingly quick, precise, and quiet. First to someone in mall management, then to a contact at the Philippine National Police, and finally to a figure clearly much higher up the local chain of command. Each conversation was short, efficient, and ended with some variation of: 'Yes, I'll cover all expenses and damages. Please ensure this remains quiet.'
Mina watched in amazement as the tension in the restaurant visibly evaporated. A personal mobile phone rang in the manager's hand; he answered, listened for thirty seconds, then nodded deferentially, whispering to his staff to clean up quietly. Within minutes, the situation had been completely de-escalated and neutralized, just as if the incident never happened.
Ivan raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow and smiled. "Still the fixer, I see. You haven't lost your touch, Wes."
Wes pocketed his phone, the operation complete. "Consider this an advance for a favor, Ivan. I'm going to need your help with something."
The diplomat chuckled, the sound deep and genuine. "You always do. So what can I help TLG with this time? Do you need restrictions for offloading lifted at Provideniya Bay, or did one of your ships get into trouble with our patrols in the Norwegian Sea?"
"Actually, it's something personal." Wes lowered his voice, adopting the hushed, conspiratorial tone of someone who didn't want to be heard. "Have you ever heard of a man named Mikhail Vasilyev?"
Ivan's casual composure vanished. His eyes widened slightly, a tremor in the mask of his usual calm professionalism. "Where did you hear that name? There are people in our embassy, high level intelligence officers, actively looking for that person."
"That is the name of the man who tried to kill me a few days ago," Wes stated simply, watching Ivan's reaction. "Luckily, my security detail was able to stop him before he succeeded."
"Gavno… this is a mess." Ivan pulled up a chair and sank into it, covering his forehead with a hand in an expression of genuine frustration. "What happened to him? Did he get away?"
Wes pulled up a chair opposite him, maintaining the perfectly crafted lie. "Unfortunately, he did. My man was able to tackle him to the ground before he could stab me, but the attacker managed to kick him off and ran away before the rest of my security detail arrived. During the scuffle however, he dropped a wallet with a fake ID. I called in a favor to run an identity search using facial recognition and got the name Mikhail Vasilyev. Seeing as he's one of yours, I thought you'd be the best person to ask why he wanted to kill me."
Ivan nodded, absorbing Wes's carefully crafted narrative. "I keep forgetting how well connected you are, my friend. Seeing as you've done me a solid, and I'm going to need you to keep the details of Vasilyev quiet, I'm going to give you some insider information." Ivan leaned in close, lowering his voice further. "Word is, Vasilyev is a former Spetsnaz working for the Solntsevskaya Bratva as an enforcer. But he went rogue."
"So that attempt on me was not under the Bratva's orders?"
"That is correct. Even as we speak, men sent by the Organizatsiya are looking for Vasilyev. They are not an organization that condones freelance operations by people under their employ."
"So who sent Vasilyev after me? If you know something, Ivan, you need to tell me. I'd like to know who my enemies are, although I truly have no idea why anyone would want me dead in the first place."
"Personally, I wouldn't know the ultimate source." Ivan's face twisted in contempt. "But there is a person who comes to mind who may know more than he lets on. Anton Kuzmin, the current Cultural Attaché. He was the first person to put the 'red notice' out that Vasilyev was in Manila. That man has always been the sneaky type. I heard he got the position through Andrei Sokolov's influence."
Ivan scribbled something on a Denny's napkin and handed it discreetly to Wes. "Consider this your payment for the favor. Just make sure he is still able to report for work tomorrow." Ivan grinned, a shark's smile.
The two men clasped hands again, the unspoken weight of shared secrets and necessary compromises hanging between them. Mina's eyes darted between them, a futile effort to follow the rapid torrent of Russian words, grasping only the shift in energy and the sudden seriousness of the conversation.
Finally, Ivan gestured toward the three men on the floor, who were beginning to stagger to their feet. "We will take it from here. The embassy will take them into custody. Thank you for preventing a public relations disaster, Wes."
Wes smirked faintly. "You should tell Sokolov to hire better bodyguards."
"Do you want to lend him yours?" Ivan shot back, half smiling as he turned to leave, ushering the bruised, bewildered Russians out the door.
When the diplomat and his entourage finally exited with the three large men in tow, the silent pressure in the room visibly dropped. Wes quietly exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off an invisible weight, and turned back to Mina, who was staring at him with new, critical intensity.
"Uncle Wes, you seem to know a lot of important people," she said flatly.
He gave a small nod and smiled slyly. "Didn't you know your uncle was a very important person as well?"
"I'm beginning to realize that. It's like you're cosplaying as a regular person while actually being a bigshot like... well, Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos."
"First of all, I'm not a billionaire, and second, it's not cosplaying. I just like being low-key."
"So, who was the guy you were talking to, and who were those guys you fought?"
Wes shrugged, the earlier ruthlessness now completely masked. "The guy I was talking to was from the Russian embassy. He came over to collect those three drunk idiots before they caused an international incident."
Mina frowned, her analysis sharp. "You make it sound like this kind of thing happens all the time."
He smiled faintly, leading her toward the door. "Well, it does, actually. You just don't hear about it often because people like me step in and help keep things quiet, in exchange for a favor or two."
"Wow, when you talk like that, you really do sound like the CEO of a big company."
Outside, the sun was high, the tropical noon heat pressing down on the pavement. Wes paused beside his SUV, glancing briefly back at the Denny's, which was already returning to its morning routine.
He turned to Mina and opened the passenger door. "Come on. Let's get out of here before the local police finally show up. They just tend to complicate matters even more."
She got in, still replaying the scene in her head: the movie like fight, the foreign diplomat, the quiet phone calls that made problems vanish. Her uncle really was just like one of those super handsome, resourceful, secretive leads in a Netflix K-Drama series, and the fact that someone like that was now casually driving around, having breakfast with her, felt both amazing and terrifying all at the same time.