Chapter 208: The Kremlin Gambit

(Ethan's POV)

The convoy cut through Moscow's frozen streets, the capital draped in a heavy layer of snow. The city felt different from the last time I was here—quieter, heavier, as if it knew the storm that was about to arrive.

Chris sat beside me, unmoving, his gaze locked on the window. His fingers tapped a slow, steady rhythm against the leather armrest. A habit. A sign that his mind was already five steps ahead.

I exhaled, my breath fogging slightly in the cold car. "You know Volkov won't play along easily."

Chris smirked, finally glancing at me. "That's what makes it fun."

I didn't reply. I knew better. Chris didn't just enjoy the game—he controlled it.

The Kremlin loomed ahead, its towering red walls standing against the dark sky. The convoy slowed, and the black ZIL limousines pulled into the heavily guarded entrance. Russian soldiers stood at attention, their fur-lined uniforms barely shifting in the icy wind. Their faces were expressionless, but I could feel their unease.

We weren't just visitors. We were a threat.

As the car stopped, Sergei Petrov, Volkov's closest aide, stepped forward. His sharp eyes swept over Chris before offering a polite but cautious nod. "President Blackwood," he greeted in Russian-accented English. "Welcome to Moscow."

Chris stepped out, adjusting his black coat. His movements were slow, deliberate. Measured power.

"Where's Volkov?" Chris asked, ignoring the pleasantries.

Petrov gestured toward the Kremlin doors. "Waiting for you."

Chris didn't acknowledge him further. He started walking. I followed, scanning the guards, noting their weapons, their posture. They were disciplined, but they weren't relaxed. Good. They knew who they were dealing with.

Inside, the Kremlin was dimly lit, a stark contrast to the chaos unfolding across the world. Russian pride dripped from every corner—tall marble columns, golden chandeliers, and oil paintings of past rulers staring down at us.

At the far end of the grand hall, seated behind an ornate desk, was Konstantin Volkov, the President of Russia.

He didn't stand. Didn't rush to greet us. Instead, he studied Chris with the cold patience of a man who had survived long enough to recognize a real threat.

Finally, he exhaled, the hint of a smile curling his lips. "Chris Blackwood," he said, his voice deep, steady. "The world whispers your name like a warning."

Chris smirked, stepping closer. "Then they're finally catching up."

Volkov's eyes flickered with something—amusement, maybe respect. But it didn't matter.

Because in this room,only one man was walking out in control.