Chapter 4 - Infiltration
The ‘Red Star’ was less of a nightclub and more of an armored bunker wrapped in neon and pulsing bass. Located in the industrial heart of Brooklyn, the club catered to the worst of the city’s criminal elite. Nikolai Volkov ran his empire from the VIP room overlooking the dance floor—a glass cage of bulletproof windows where he could watch the chaos while remaining utterly untouchable.
Elena sat in the back of an unmarked black sedan parked three blocks away. Rain sleeted against the windshield, distorting the flashing streetlights. Beside her sat Marcus, a former military intelligence officer who had been dishonorably discharged and subsequently recruited by Elena to run the technical side of her ‘Invisible Army’.
Marcus typed furiously on a rugged laptop. “I’m in their security feed. The encrypted signal was a joke. Our guy on the inside planted the hardware intercept on their router ten minutes ago.”
Elena leaned forward, watching the live feeds of the club pop up on the screen. “Status of the asset?”
“Asset is in position. Bartender station three, directly beneath the VIP lounge.”
Elena looked at the screen. Amidst the strobe lights and throngs of dancing bodies, a young man with a shaved head and a bartender’s apron was mixing drinks with mechanical precision. His name was Leo. Two years ago, Leo had been facing ten years in prison for a drug charge he didn't commit. Elena had made the charges disappear. In return, Leo belonged to her body and soul.
“Volkov’s security detail?” she asked.
“Tight,” Marcus replied, zooming in on the VIP room. “Six men inside the room with him. All carrying heavy ordinance. Two more at the door. They check everything. They even test the drinks for poison before handing them to Volkov.”
“Paranoia is a survivor’s best trait,” Elena murmured. “But it’s also a weakness. When you spend all your time looking for the knife in the dark, you forget to watch the air you breathe.”
“Are we a go for Operation Asphyxia?” Marcus asked, his fingers hovering over the enter key.
“Not yet. We wait for the drop.”
Inside the club, Leo the bartender received an order for the VIP room. Three bottles of Cristal champagne and a bucket of ice. Leo calmly retrieved the bottles. But instead of taking ice from the standard machine, he opened a small, insulated cooler tucked beneath his station. He scooped the ice cubes into a silver bucket, placed the bottles inside, and handed the tray to a waitress.
The waitress was not one of Elena’s people. She was just a girl doing her job. She carried the tray up the glass stairs to the VIP room.
On the screen in the car, Elena watched the heavily armed guards stop the waitress. They searched her, inspected the bottles, and even took a piece of the ice and dropped it in water to ensure it wasn't rigged with explosives. Satisfied, they let her inside. She set the bucket on Volkov’s table, bowed slightly, and left.
“They bought it,” Marcus said, a grin spreading across his face.
Elena checked her watch. “The ice is melting. We have exactly four minutes before the dry ice core of those cubes breaches and releases the aerosolized fentanyl derivative into the enclosed room.”
She had learned the trick from an old intelligence manual. The poison wasn't in the drink. It was frozen inside the ice cubes. As the ice melted in the warm, humid air of the VIP room, the odorless, colorless narcotic gas would silently fill the sealed glass box.
“Three minutes,” Marcus counted down.
On the screen, Volkov was laughing, puffing on a thick cigar. One of his guards poured the champagne.
“Two minutes.”
Volkov’s laughter abruptly stopped. He blinked heavily. The guard pouring the champagne suddenly dropped the bottle, glass shattering across the table. The guard collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut.
Panic erupted in the soundproof room. Volkov stood up, shouting orders, but his words were slurred. Another guard tried to draw his weapon but collapsed to his knees, his eyes rolling back in his head. The air circulation in the VIP room was poor, designed to keep the smoke in, which only trapped the potent gas perfectly.
“One minute. Target is going down.”
Nikolai Volkov, the terrifying Spetsnaz killer, stumbled toward the bulletproof glass. He slapped a heavy hand against it, looking out at the oblivious crowd dancing below. His legs gave out. He slid down the glass, leaving a streak of sweat, until he lay completely motionless on the floor alongside his men.
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Elena opened the car door, stepping out into the freezing Brooklyn rain. She pulled the collar of her black trench coat tight against the wind.
“They will be unconscious for exactly twenty minutes,” Elena said, checking her pistol. “Shut down the club’s cameras. Wipe the server. It’s time to send a message.”
