Moscow's night feels like a vodka-soaked blanket, heavily pressing down on Song Heping's shoulders.
At three in the morning, in the apartment corridor, he stared through the peephole for a full two minutes. Only after confirming there were no surveillance personnel, did he gesture to the Ferrari behind him.
"The corridor is clear." Song Heping's voice was extremely low. "Remember, once we reach the rooftop, follow the route I marked and don't use the flashlight."
Ferrari nodded, his right hand constantly placed on the Glock 18 at his waist.
Song Heping gently twisted open the door lock, the cold metal reminding him of General Anatoly's icy, ruthless gaze.
Anyone climbing to the position of Defense Minister within the Moscow regime is a tough character.
"Let's go."
He silently slid through the door gap.
The two moved like ghosts through the hallway, precisely avoiding every floor seam that might make a sound.
