The executive suite at the Manila Peninsula felt too exposed. Aleksey Zotov stood by the window, the panoramic view of Makati's financial district doing nothing to soothe his nerves. The morning sun beat against the glass, but the light felt cold. He was a man accustomed to control, but here, in this foreign land, the rhythm had broken.
It had been twenty four hours since he'd last heard from Anton. twenty hours of silence that felt like a growing cavity in the foundation of his operation. First, Mikhail Vasilyev vanishes without a trace and now, Anton, his sole contact in the city, was gone as well. What in God's name is happening in this country?
Waiting, Aleksey decided, was no longer a viable strategy. Sitting in a hotel room while his network dissolved around him felt like a death sentence with his deadline fast approaching.
He turned sharply from the window. In the living room of the suite, Peytr and Yuri sat at ease, two mountains of muscle that made the designer furniture seem delicate. They were drinking mineral water and monitoring the bank of closed-circuit monitors they had installed which tapped into the hotel's surveillance system.
"Peytr. Yuri." Aleksey's voice was crisp, cutting through the silence. "Let's go pay Anton a visit. It is not like him to not make contact for this long."
Peytr, the elder of the two, a man whose face was a road map of old scars, looked up immediately. "Are we expecting trouble, Boss?" His Russian was flat and professional.
Aleksey gave a slow, grim nod. "Maybe. I feel the air growing heavy. Better to be prepared just to be sure."
Peytr and Yuri exchanged a quick, meaningful glance, a conversation spoken only with the eyes, and immediately rose to action. They moved not with haste, but with a practiced, predatory economy of motion. From a large travel bag stashed behind the sofa, they began pulling out gear.
First came the protective armor. Underneath their simple, dark jackets, they began strapping on high-grade, lightweight ballistic vests, fastening the Velcro straps tightly across their chests. Yuri held a spare vest up, his expression questioning. "Do you want one, Boss?"
Aleksey glanced at the vest. It was bulky, restrictive, and an unwelcome intrusion on his tailored silhouette. But caution, in this environment, trumped vanity. He took the vest. "Yes. Better to look clumsy than to bleed out on a sidewalk." He thanked Yuri, strapped the armor close, and quickly pulled his own jacket back over it.
The arming process continued. Peytr and Yuri each secured a vicious-looking combat knife to the inside of their belts. They then moved to the firearms. They strapped multiple spare magazines to their torsos in concealed webbing. Finally, Yuri slid a small, dull-green fragmentation grenade into a deep, protected inner pocket of his coat.
Peytr stepped up to Aleksey and presented a pistol: an MP-443 Grach, the Russian military sidearm. It was a sturdy, reliable weapon. Aleksey took it, the cold steel familiar and comforting in his hand, and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
The final piece of preparation was the heaviest. The two bodyguards each slid a PP-2000 submachine gun, a Russian made compact, fully automatic weapon known for its compact size making it easy to conceal, into a shoulder sling, allowing the weapons to rest diagonally across their backs, the dark polymer entirely hidden by their coats. Now, they simply looked like two very large men in slightly oversized jackets.
Yuri adjusted his collar, his eyes shining with cold excitement. "We are ready, Boss."
Aleksey looked over the two men. They were a sight to behold; two pillars of controlled violence, armed discreetly yet heavily enough to fight their way out of a small siege. He felt a fleeting moment of pure confidence.
"Good," Aleksey said, his grim smile returning. "Let's go find Anton. And if we find trouble instead, we'll remind them exactly who they decided to upset."
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The grand lobby of the Peninsula was a swirling microcosm of Manila's elite and business classes. Marble floors, high ceilings, and the constant, low murmur of expensive conversations permeated the surrounding area. Brady, a Level 3 Contractor of Aegis Security, quietly occupied a small patch of space near a towering floral arrangement, his presence as unremarkable as a shadow. A set of neutral polo and khakis, allowed him to blend in with the crowd, while his eyes remained focused on the set of ornate elevator doors and fire escape, which were the only way up or down from the building's upper floors.
He spoke softly, lips barely moving, into the concealed microphone near his jaw. "Nest, this is Eagle 1, checking in. Still no sign of Zotov."
The response, a sultry, almost seductive voice, clicked into his earpiece. "Roger that, Eagle 1. Keep monitoring the situation. Chief wants this guy bagged, preferably without making a scene that ends up on the local news."
"Copy that, Nest. We'll nab him as soon as he shows his face. Wouldn't want the Chief getting impatient and start acting on his own again." Brady's tone carried a hint of shared resignation.
"You and me both, Eagle 1," Nest replied. "I really wish the Chief would just settle into his role as the organization's frontman and leave the action to us."
"Not a chance, Nest. Chief just isn't built that way."
Brady ended the transmission and began another slow, deliberate circuit around the perimeter of the busy lobby, timing his steps to look like a man idly checking the time or looking for a misplaced colleague. He checked the main doors, the concierge desk, and then returned to his post near the elevators.
Suddenly, a small, jarring burst of static hit his earpiece, followed by a tense whisper.
"Eagle 1, this is Eagle 3, over at the staff side entrance. Several cars just pulled up, and a bunch of greasy-looking Chinese men just entered the building. They're moving with intent, and I clocked at least three of them visibly packing heat. I think they may be Triad."
Brady's pulse quickened. He stopped his meandering walk, feigning interest in a hotel brochure rack. "Eagle 4, this is Eagle 1, do you see anything?"
"Roger that, Eagle 1," Eagle 4 responded immediately from his position near the main valet drop-off. "Just clocked seven Chinese men entering the main lobby now. They're dispersing quickly. You should see a group of them breaking toward your left, near the lounge."
Brady turned subtly, his peripheral vision confirming the report. Seven men, dressed in slightly too-nice dark clothing, had dissolved into the flow of hotel patrons, but their eyes were too sharp, their posture too rigid. These were not tourists. They were hunters.
"Nest, this is Eagle 1, you monitoring this? It looks like we're not the only ones after Zotov. We have seven non-friendlies, possibly Triad, moving in on the target's location."
"Copy that, Eagle 1. Maintain observation. Let's see this thing play out. Standby for movement from Zotov."
"Roger that, Nest."
Brady located an empty, plush lobby chair and sat down, pulling his phone out to simulate scrolling through messages, the action giving him license to lower his head and conceal his constant sweeping gaze. He tracked the seven Triad members as they spread out, taking up observation points near entance and exit points. One ended up leaning against a column just twenty feet from where Brady was sitting, his hand resting conspicuously inside his dark jacket pocket.
The tension in the air was now palpable, the normal hotel buzz layered with an invisible threat mosy people couldn't perceive.
Another quiet burst of static in Brady's ear, this time from a different voice.
"Eagle 1, this is Eagle 2. We have visual. Ivan Petrov just entered through the main entrance. He is flanked by two bodyguards, big guys. Heading for the elevators now."
Ivan Petrov. He must by here for Zotov as well. While publicly he acted as the Russian Embassy's Security Chief, everyone in the intelligence community knew he was actually Russian Intelligence, a member of the FSB.
Brady discreetly tapped the side of his earpiece, one short tap, one long, followed by three short bursts. The pre-arranged signal for his team to go silent and standby. He slowly stood up, performing a convincing, noisy stretch, before moving with practiced casualness toward a quiet corner near the concierge desk. From this vantage point, he had an unobstructed view of both the main elevator bank and the Triad team member standing near the column.
"Nest, this is Eagle 1, I'm clocking Ivan Petrov now. Confirming two armed escorts. They are heading for the elevators, moving fast."
"Roger that, Eagle 1. Follow and maintain observation. Looks like the party is about to get started."
"Copy that, Nest. Eagle team standing by to party crash if necessary." Brady didn't wait for a reply. The situation had just shifted from surveillance to interception, and the last thing he needed was to be trapped in an elevator with a hostile extraction team.
Brady took a slow, deep breath, his hand resting lightly on the cold steel of his sidearm. He spoke into the concealed microphone, his voice a low, steady rumble of tactical command.
"Eagle 1 to team. New directive: We're going in. Eagle 3, Eagle 2, maintain current position. Keep watch over the main entrances and exits. Eagle 4, Eagle 5, on me. Rendezvous at the fire exit service stairs. We're taking the vertical route. Time for some cardio."
He pushed off the wall, no longer a bored tourist. His eyes flickered once to the Triad soldier by the column, who was signaling to his companions to gather by the elevator. Then back to the rapidly closing elevator doors that contained Ivan and his men, who would probably act as the catalysts in setting the next change of events in motion.
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Ivan Petrov, known in certain Moscow circles as a man of chilling efficiency, stepped out of the brass and wood paneled elevator onto the eleventh floor. He did not hurry, but his pace was purposeful. His two accompanying security men, both built like foundation stones, spread out slightly, ensuring the small elevator lobby was immediately their domain.
Ivan wore a faint, almost cat-like smile, he was immensely pleased. Anton Kuzmin was a wellspring of information this morning. Not only about Aleksey Zotov but about the bratva and Andrei Sokolov's plans in general. Wes's team did a brutally effective job of breaking Anton last night, completely crushing his spirit and any resistance to answering questions truthfully and completely. He had wanted to capture and interrogate Anton for a long time now, but was unable to because of his status as a diplomat and appointee of Andrei Sokolov. Wes's men had solved that problem for him beautifully, allowing him to extract the information while keeping his hands clean from any possible political fallout.
'Not even an asset and already you are a big help to me, Wes Chai. I will return the favor and find out who wants you dead, so you can continue to help me more in the future,' Ivan thought, walking in the direction of Aleksey's hotel suite. As the elevator doors smoothly closed behind them, Ivan's smile froze, then widened into something predatory.
Approaching the elevator bank from the corridor, just meters away, was Aleksey Zotov. He was flanked by two bodyguards, the mercenaries Anton mentioned. Aleksey must have been coming to take the elevator down.
The instant Aleksey's eyes met Ivan's, the colour drained from his face. They had never formally met, but in their world, faces and reputations preceded them. Aleksey recognized the implacable authority in Ivan Petrov's gaze, the cold embodiment of the state security apparatus that the Bratva did not want to be on the wrong side of.
Aleksey froze mid-stride. He took a single, reflexive step back, letting Peytr and Yuri shuffle instantly into protective positions ahead of him. Both mercenaries subtly shifted their weight, their hands hovering near their sides where the hidden straps of the PP-2000 submachine guns lay concealed under their jackets.
Ivan took a comfortable, deliberate step forward in front of his men, filling the small space between the elevator doors and the suite corridor. He gave Aleksey the slow, deliberate grin of a predator that had just cornered its prey.
"Aleksey Zotov. Going somewhere?" Ivan's Russian was smooth, cultured, and carried the weight of absolute power.
Aleksey remained silent, the muscle twitching in his jaw.
Ivan signaled his own men with a minuscule shift of his chin, indicating they should lower their hands from their jacket pockets, where they were gripping the butts of their holstered pistols. He wanted this confrontation to be clean, official, and psychologically devastating.
"Gentlemen," Ivan addressed Peytr and Yuri, his voice shifting to a tone of warning. "I suggest you refrain from reaching for your weapons. Not unless you want to be branded as traitors to the Motherland and hunted down like dogs by the intelligence community for the rest of your short lives."
Peytr and Yuri exchanged a sharp, comprehensive look. The threat was not idle; it was a promise. Ivan Petrov was an official. Engaging him in a shootout here would seal their fate as international targets of the highest order. With a synchronized, almost imperceptible nod, they relaxed their hands and dropped their shoulders, surrendering the tactical advantage.
"Excellent," Ivan said, his tone dripping with satisfaction. "Now, Aleksey. I assume you are on your way to find your friend Anton, yes? He is currently being detained inside the embassy compound pending formal charges of sedition and espionage. If you do not wish to end up the same, I suggest you accompany me willingly, and we can have a quiet little chat."
Aleksey's shoulders slumped. He raised his hands slightly, a defeated acknowledgment of his situation. "I will go willingly. Better I go with you than the alternatives."
Ivan Petrov's ears perked up instantly at that last statement. Alternatives? That confirmed it; there was a serious break in the bratva ranks, perhaps a new faction is planning a takeover? He filed the information away for later, a useful piece of data to be leveraged at a different time.
"Good. I like how reasonable you are. Come, let's—"
Ivan did not get to finish his sentence.
The elevator doors behind Ivan hissed open, allowing Samuel Wong, flanked by several of his Triad soldiers to step out. The silence of the lobby was violently shattered by the Chinese gangsters who immediately drew their Glock 17s and Floro MK-9 submachine guns and opened fire, the sharp, deafening crack of 9mm rounds echoing relentlessly in the confined space.