The air that defined my life smelled of high-octane jet fuel, stale coffee, and a distinct hint of expensive American perfume—Joy by Jean Patou, a gift from a very grateful Saudi prince whose assets I'd protected in Geneva three years prior. The scent was a reminder of what the free market could provide.
My name is Kaelen Vance. My friends call me Kael, if I let them get close enough, which I usually don't. I was technically retired from the CIA, running my own highly lucrative private intelligence consultancy. The world, however, had a way of pulling you back in with the lure of a challenge and a fat consultancy fee—the American way.
I was in my Georgetown apartment in D.C., a slick, glass-walled space that overlooked the Potomac River. It was minimalist, modern, and expensive, cluttered only with contemporary art books and an empty takeout container from the best Thai place in the city. My phone, a state-of-the-art secure line—custom-built and non-traceable—rang at 3:00 AM. I answered on the second ring, already awake, running on adrenaline and four hours of sleep spread across three days. I thrived in this jagged rhythm.
"Vance here."
The voice on the other end was clipped and sharp—William 'Bill' Donovan, my former handler, now the Deputy Director of Operations. A good man who understood that rules were merely suggestions written by people with less imagination than us.
"Kael, the Helsinki extraction was a clean sweep. Zhivago is safe in Langley. Briefing at oh-eight-hundred hours. You nailed it."
A rush of adrenaline—the good kind, the kind that reminded you you were alive, that your instincts were sharper than a surgical steel blade. "Told you I could do it, Bill. The man practically ran into my arms once he saw the embassy sign. He was starving for a decent hamburger and the right to complain about his government."
Donovan chuckled, a dry sound. "Don't get cocky. The Brass is ecstatic. But the other side is quiet. Too quiet."
"Ivan Volkov," I said, leaning against my kitchen counter, pouring a fresh cup of coffee that would likely keep me buzzing until tomorrow. The machine hummed—efficient, powerful, American. "The Iceberg. I figured he'd be on the file."
"Exactly. We think he's been tasked with the cleanup operation. He won't be coming for the Professor. He'll be coming for you, Kael. A message job. To remind us that playing in their backyard has consequences."
I smiled, a sharp, predatory expression reflected in the dark glass of the window, behind which the city of Washington D.C. slept, safe and unaware. I thrived on chaos. I believed in the power of the individual sprint. My America was a place where you could build your own destiny, where initiative was rewarded, not suppressed by a gray, faceless bureaucracy.
I hated what the Soviets represented: a massive, gray machine that ground the color out of the world. They were puritanical and dull. Ivan Volkov was the epitome of that machine—a man without humor, without flair, operating on dead theory rather than living instinct.
"Let him come, Bill. I need a new project. My life has been far too peaceful lately."
I hung up, the static silence of the post-call line replaced by the rhythmic beat of a city that never really sleeps. I was the firework, bright and burning, and Ivan Volkov was the dull, cold weight of history trying to put me out.
The game was back on, and this time, it was personal. I checked the clip in my Beretta, which sat on the counter next to my espresso machine, and packed a small, tactical bag with the essentials. It was time to go hunting the Bear.
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