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.
Kael Vance landed in London two days later. The smell of the city—a blend of damp stone, diesel, and history—felt like home base. She had a contract meeting scheduled with a British Aerospace executive in Mayfair, a cover for a completely unrelated assignment regarding arms brokering in the Middle East. She walked through Heathrow with a spring in her step. The Zhivago operation had been seamless, a perfect demonstration of American efficiency and individual initiative over Soviet rigidity. She felt sharp, in control, running on a high that money couldn't buy.
Her current location was a suite at Claridge’s, a place that felt like old money, safe and secure in its aristocratic silence. She unpacked her few belongings, placing her Beretta in the safe, and took a long, hot bath, sipping champagne from the mini-bar. Life was good when you were winning the Cold War one defector at a time, proving that her system was simply better than the Bear’s.
She switched on a small, encrypted burner phone Bill Donovan had given her specifically for the Volkov contingency. It buzzed immediately with a text message.
He’s arrived in Helsinki. Volkov. The Iceberg is moving. Watch your back. He’s operational.
Kael finished the champagne in one gulp, a sudden coldness replacing the warm glow of the alcohol. Good. She was tired of the abstract fight, tired of fighting a faceless ideology. The idea of Volkov—this quiet, disciplined, humorless Soviet apparatchik—stirred her blood. She liked having a face for the enemy. It was cleaner that way. It meant the fight was about two people now, not two nations.
She put on a stunning black dress, something elegant and form-fitting. If Volkov was going to hunt her, she wasn't going to hide in safe houses or don a drab trench coat. She was going to force him to look her in the eye, in public, on her own terms. She was a flare; she was meant to be seen.
The rivalry, for Kael, was a personal demonstration of superiority. Her system of individual initiative was faster, smarter, and more efficient than his slow, bureaucratic collective. She was here to prove it. She intended to move fast, hit hard, and force him into making a mistake—the mistake that rigid thinkers always make when faced with improvisation.
She called a car service, instructing the driver to take her to a high-profile restaurant in South Kensington, a place where the wealthy and the connected gossiped loudly. She was not a woman who waited to be found. She would make herself highly visible, a brilliant flash of light in the London night sky, daring the shadows to reach for her.
The game wasn't just about the defector anymore. It was about defining whose world would survive into the next decade. Kael smiled at her reflection in the car window as London's lights blurred past.
Let the bear come out
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