Just then, he heard a deep voice murmur above him. “He won’t be completing his spy mission tonight.”
The woman he’d spotted as part of the flirtatious couple knelt beside him and began to rifle through his pockets. The last thing Pan saw was the smirk on her face before the void swallowed him whole.
Kirill Andreyevich Kuznetsov swirled his vodka, watching the way the liquid caught the dim golden light. Around him, five men sat in quiet anticipation, their faces carved from stone, waiting for the final act of the evening.
The room smelled of cedar, old smoke, and history soaked into the very foundation of the building. Deals had been made here, wars whispered into existence over a toast and the flick of a wrist. It was such an unassuming place to hold such meetings that it had gone unnoticed until now.
The heavy oak door creaked open again, a momentary gust of frigid air sweeping into the room before it was promptly closed. The man entering was Dmitry Mirov, his deputy and head of Special Operations for National Security Affairs. The man better known as The Undertaker walked confidently toward them, his movements unhurried, his expression unreadable. He stepped around the table to Kuznetsov’s side and took his seat, then reached for his Beluga Epicure, downing the vodka before leaning in to whisper, his breath barely stirring the air.
“It’s taken care of. We have his phone.”
Kuznetsov’s lip twitched, the closest he ever came to a smile. He lifted his glass. “Good.”
Seated across from Kuznetsov was Zhang Weihao, the director of the Central National Security Commission. He slowly sipped tea, his expression carefully neutral.
Zhang studied Kuznetsov as if searching for the invisible strings he was pulling. The air in the room thickened, the weight of decisions made pressing upon them all.
“Let’s talk about Taiwan — you’re certain this strategy of yours will not interfere with our plans?” Kuznetsov asked Zhang, hoping for a straight answer. “Goryunov has spent years preparing for this. It can’t be derailed at the last minute.”
“You can be assured, Kuznetsov, that our wayward province will not derail the grand strategy,” Zhang said dismissively. “Besides, the naval units involved are not drawn from our North Sea Fleet. They have no impact or interaction with the Arctic operation.”
“Still, it is an unnecessary risk right before things begin,” Kuznetsov countered, unconvinced this sideshow wouldn’t bleed over into their carefully laid plans. Too much was at risk for this to fail at the last moment.
Zhang stared at him for a moment, not saying anything. “The time to settle the Taiwan issue is now,” he finally explained. “With our joint plan underway, Europe and America will be powerless to intervene — a hostage to circumstances beyond their control. Besides, the plan has been in motion for years. It is too far along for us to turn back.”
Kuznetsov raised an eyebrow in surprise. When he spoke, his voice was like tempered steel. “Hmm, then we best hope your plan works. This year, this moment — we won’t have a better time to act than now. In eighteen weeks, the world as we know it will be gone. And a new world will be reborn in its place — one led not by the West but by the East.” Zhang set his cup down with deliberate precision. “The Americans will be overextended. They will scramble when it begins, but they will not know where to defend.”
Mirov poured himself another drink, his smirk barely concealed. “They still believe in their markets. By the time they understand, their economy will already be in flames.”
Lieutenant General Sergei Orlov sat back in his chair as he rolled an unlit cigarette between his fingers. “The simulations are complete,” he added. “NATO’s response time is predictable. They will hesitate.” His gaze flicked toward Zhang. “We will not.”
This was why Orlov was called The Chess Master. His mind worked several steps ahead of his opponents’. It was a skill Kuznetsov had put to good use when he’d appointed him Director of National Security Operations. The man worked in the shadows. Few knew of him; those who did feared him. He was the man who effectively ran the nation’s private military contractors.
Cuī Zemin smiled coldly as he stared at Orlov, then shifted his gaze to Kuznetsov. “When the time is right — they won’t know what hit them.”
Kuznetsov nodded to Cuī, the man known as The Ghost. Cuī was the director of the Ministry of State Security 6th Bureau — Special Affairs Division. It was Orlov and Cuī who were responsible for lighting the flames that would set the world on fire.
Raising his glass, Kuznetsov gave a final toast, the weight of history settling upon them. “Then, gentlemen… let the firestorm begin.”
The vodka burned as it went down, smooth and inevitable. The servers returned, sensing the moment was right to serve the plates of honey-drenched medovik, an indulgence before the storm was unleashed. They ate in silence, savoring the final moments before the world burned.
