Location: The Sokolov Estate, Malibu, California
Dimitri Sokolov ran.
His lungs burned, his chest heaving with the desperate, ragged rhythm of a man who had spent too many years smoking unfiltered cigarettes and snorting high-grade cocaine. He clutched the laptop bag to his chest like a lifeline, the platinum chain of the drive digging into his sweaty neck.
"Move! Out of my way!" he screamed, shoving a confused caterer into a wall.
The hallway was a blur of panic. The distant wail of sirens was getting louder, cutting through the sound of the ocean.
Two of his personal guards, hulking men with AK-47s, rounded the corner. They looked relieved to see him.
"Boss! We need to get you to the chopper. The police are breaching the main gate!"
"No!" Sokolov shrieked, his eyes wide and bloodshot. "No chopper! Too loud! Too visible! He'll see it! He'll shoot it down!"
"Who, boss?"
"The Ghost! The Wolf!" Sokolov was spitting as he spoke, his paranoia reaching a fever pitch. "Don't follow me! Guard the estate! Burn the files! Forget the children—we can kidnap more! Just keep them busy!"
The guards hesitated, exchanging a look. "Boss, we can't just—"
"Do as I say!" Sokolov howled, pulling a gold-plated pistol from his waistband and waving it wildly. "I pay you to die, not to think! Hold them off!"
He didn't wait for an answer. He sprinted toward the service elevator that led to the sublevels.
He punched the button. The doors slid open. He threw himself inside and hit 'B3'.
The elevator descended. Sokolov leaned against the mirrored wall, sliding down until he hit the floor. He was shaking. He checked the drive. It was still there. As long as he had the drive, he had Karpov. As long as he had Karpov, he had a future.
Ding.
The doors opened.
The air in the wine cellar was cool, smelling of oak, fermentation, and old money. The humidity was strictly controlled.
Sokolov stumbled out. He ran past rows of racks holding vintages older than his own country. He reached the deepest chamber—the Reserve Room.
He burst in, slamming the heavy wooden door behind him.
He wasn't alone.
A worker was standing by a large oak cask at the far end of the room. He wore a heavy apron, gloves, and a flat cap pulled low. He held a clipboard, seemingly inspecting the structural integrity of the barrel.
Sokolov froze, then his anger flared.
"You!" Sokolov shouted, his voice echoing in the vaulted chamber. "Don't you hear the commotion outside?! The place is being evacuated! Get the hell out of here!"
The worker didn't turn around. He kept his back to Sokolov, making a mark on the clipboard.
"Sorry, sir," the worker said. His voice was muffled, deferential. "Just finishing the inventory."
"Inventory? The Feds are upstairs!" Sokolov advanced, waving his gun. "Get out before I shoot you myself!"
"Leaving now, sir," the worker said. He moved toward the side exit, stepping into the shadows of the alcove.
Sokolov ignored him.
He rushed to the wall of barrels on the north side.
This was his masterpiece.
A panic room designed by a paranoid architect he had killed shortly after completion.
He moved to a specific barrel—a 1945 Rothschild. He turned the brass faucet to the left. Then he moved to the adjacent barrel, a 1982 Lafite, and turned the faucet right.
Finally, he moved to the third barrel in the sequence.
He opened the faucet.
No wine came out.
Instead, a hydraulic hiss filled the room. The heavy stone wall behind the barrels groaned and swung inward, revealing a steel door with a keypad.
A panic room.
Sokolov let out a sob of relief. He rushed toward the opening. "Safe. Safe."
Click. Thud.
The sound came from behind him.
It was the sound of the heavy oak door to the main cellar closing.
Then, the distinct, mechanical click of a deadbolt sliding home.
Sokolov stopped. He turned around slowly.
The worker hadn't left.
He was standing in front of the main door, blocking the only exit.
His back was still turned to Sokolov.
"I told you to leave!" Sokolov screamed, raising his gun. His hand was shaking so badly he could barely aim. "Open that door! Open it!"
The worker stood motionless. He was perfectly still.
The lighting in the cellar was dim, cast by flickering electric sconces that mimicked candlelight.
Sokolov stepped closer, anger giving way to a creeping, primal dread.
"Hey! Are you deaf?"
The worker reached up.
Slowly, deliberately, he removed the flat cap.
He dropped it to the floor.
The light caught the back of his head.
It was pale. Smooth. Hairless.
And tattooed just above the neck, stark black against the skin, was a barcode.
640509-040147
Sokolov's breath hitched. The gun slipped in his sweaty grip. The blood drained from his face so fast he felt lightheaded.
"No," Sokolov whispered. The word was barely a breath. "No... no no no no..."
The worker turned around.
Sokolov looked into the face of his death.
High cheekbones.
A jawline carved from granite. And eyes—ice-blue, devoid of anger, devoid of pity, devoid of anything human.
They were the eyes of a shark looking at a seal.
Sokolov backed away, hitting the wine barrels. "I... I have money! I have the drive! I can give you Karpov!"
Agent 47 adjusted his leather gloves. He looked at the trembling man, then at the open secret door.
"Cut," 47 said.
[Fifteen Minutes Earlier]
Agent 47 stood in the blind spot of the hallway, pressed against the silk wallpaper. He was a statue in a guard's uniform.
Inside the study, the panic was escalating.
"My orders are to hold position," the Widow spoke. Her voice was devoid of inflection. Monotone. Robotic.
"Screw your orders!" Sokolov screamed. "If the Feds get me, I talk! Do you hear me? I talk!"
The threat registered.
The Widow moved. 47 heard the shift in her weight.
"We will relocate to the extraction point," she said.
"The panic room in the wine cellar," Sokolov said, grabbing a laptop bag and the chain around his neck—the drive.
"Go! Move!"
47 waited.
He monitored the audio frequencies. He heard the distinct sound of a laptop bag being zipped.
He heard the heavy footsteps of Sokolov moving toward the door.
The door handle turned.
47 tensed.
The door swung open. Dimitri Sokolov burst out, clutching his bag, eyes wild, looking left toward the stairs.
He didn't look right. He didn't see the shadow standing inches from him.
Sokolov ran.
As soon as the Director cleared the frame, 47 moved.
He didn't chase the target.
He pivoted, slipping into the room just as the door began to swing shut on its hinges.
The Widow was there.
She was moving to follow Sokolov, her body coiled for action. She saw the movement—a blur of black uniform entering her perimeter.
She jolted, a microsecond of shock.
She was young.
Early twenties. Raven hair pulled back in a tactical braid. Piercing blue-grey eyes that widened as she registered the threat.
She reached for the Glock on her hip.
She was fast. Red Room fast.
47 was faster.
He was inside her guard before her hand touched the polymer grip. He slapped her hand away, the impact loud in the quiet room. With his other hand, he grabbed her throat.
He drove her backward.
It wasn't a strike; it was a displacement of mass. He slammed her into the heavy mahogany bookshelf. Books tumbled around them.
The Widow didn't scream. She reacted. She brought her knee up, aiming for his groin.
47 caught the strike with his thigh, absorbing the blow. He used his weight to pin her against the wood. He transitioned his grip from her throat to a carotid clinch, locking his forearm across her neck.
She clawed at his face. Her nails dug into his skin, seeking eyes, seeking weakness. She twisted her body, using a high-level Sambo escape maneuver designed to break a grapple.
It would have worked on a Navy SEAL. It would have worked on a Spetsnaz operative.
It did not work on 47.
His strength was absolute.
He tightened the vice.
"Sleep," he whispered.
The Widow's eyes frantically searched his face. She saw his eyes. Those sharp blue eyes...
Recognition flickered of the stories, the nightmare come true.
Her struggles intensified, desperate now. She tried to draw a knife from her boot.
47 swept her leg.
They went down. 47 landed on top, controlling the fall. He pinned her arms with his knees. He placed his hand over her mouth and nose, reinforcing the choke with his other arm.
Her vision tunneled. The fight drained out of her muscles as oxygen starvation set in.
Five seconds later, she went limp.
47 checked her pulse. Strong. Steady. Just unconscious.
He stood up, adjusting his uniform.
He listened.
Outside, the chaos was growing. He could hear the thwup-thwup of a news helicopter—or perhaps police air support—approaching. He heard Sokolov screaming at his guards downstairs.
47 looked down at the Widow.
She was an asset.
A map to Dreykov. But extracting an unconscious hostile through a police siege was tactically unsound.
It introduced unnecessary variables.
The police were already breaching the perimeter. They would process the scene. If they found an assassin, she would go to a black site. If they found a victim, she would go to a hospital.
A hospital was easier to access than a federal holding cell.
He needed to change her narrative.
47 knelt beside her.
He needed to ensure she remained compliant during the discovery phase.
He delivered a sharp, calculated chop to the side of her neck—a percussive impact to the vagus nerve.
Her breathing deepened instantly. She wouldn't wake for hours.
He then unbuckled her tactical belt and slid it off, tossing it under the sofa. He removed her shoulder holster.
He grabbed the collar of her tactical blazer.
Unceremoniously, efficiently, he stripped her.
He removed the blazer, the tactical vest, the boots. She doesn't have a bra and panties, all of which were incorporated into the tactical suit that she was wearing.
She was bare like she just came out of her mama.
Surprisingly, there's no evidence of wounds on her body.
You would expect a highly trained fighter or assassin to have one, but she doesn't have one.
But 47, being 47. Didn't care about the woman lying bare before him.
He simply lifted her.
Carried her to Sokolov's massive leather couch and then laid her down.
He looked around for something to tie her hands and feet, and then found a pair of handcuffs inside... something Karpov had surely used during engaging his twisted, sick desires.
He bound her hands and feet to her back
He looked at her face. It was too clean. Too composed.
47 raised his fist.
It was a cold calculation.
He struck her cheekbone. A controlled blow. Enough to bruise immediately, enough to swell, but not enough to fracture the orbital.
He struck her lip, splitting it. Blood trickled down her chin.
He stepped back.
The scene now told a different story.
A young woman, bound, beaten, found in the private study of a man known for trafficking, kidnapping, sexual predator, and abuse.
When the SWAT team breached this room, they wouldn't see an assassin. They would see a victim.
They would call paramedics. They would secure her.
And once she was in the system, 47 could find her.
"Safe," 47 murmured.
He turned to the window. He opened the latch.
Below, the service courtyard was chaotic but empty of eyes; everyone was focused on the front gate.
47 vaulted onto the sill. He dropped three stories, landing in a crouch behind a dumpster.
He moved quickly to the staff locker room, which had been abandoned in the panic.
He found a locker hanging open. Inside was a heavy apron, gloves, and a cap. A winery worker's uniform.
47 changed rapidly. He stashed the guard uniform in the trash.
He donned the cap, pulling it low. He grabbed a clipboard from a table.
He stepped out of the locker room and headed for the service elevator.
Sokolov was running to the wine cellar. 47 knew the layout. He knew the shortcuts.
The elevator was slow.
47 took the stairs.
He descended into the dark, moving faster than the man he was hunting.
[PRESENT]
"Cut," 47's voice resounded inside the room.
Sokolov stared at him, trembling. The gold-plated gun rattled in his hand.
"You... you're him," Sokolov stammered. "The Asset."
"I am the audit," 47 corrected. "And you have failed the inspection."
Sokolov screamed and raised the gun.
47 moved.
He stepped inside the line of fire, slapping the gun barrel aside. The shot went wide, shattering a bottle of vintage Pinot Noir.
47 grabbed Sokolov's wrist. He twisted. The gun fell.
He grabbed Sokolov by the throat and slammed him against the open steel door of the panic room.
"The drive," 47 demanded calmly.
Sokolov clawed at the chain around his neck. "Take it! Take it! Just let me go!"
He ripped the chain off and thrust the USB drive at 47.
47 took it. He pocketed it.
"Thank you."
"Now let me go!" Sokolov begged. "I gave you what you wanted!"
47 didn't move. He blocked the exit with his presence alone.
"Your connection to the Red Room," 47 stated. "Define it."
"I... I don't know them!" Sokolov stammered, sweat dripping from his nose. "I only know General Karpov! He's the link!"
47 said nothing.
He simply looked at Sokolov. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. His ice-blue eyes bored into the director, dissecting his panic.
Sokolov crumbled under the weight of that stare.
"Okay! Okay! I source the talent!" he screamed. "I find the girls! The runaways, the orphans, the ones no one looks for! I send the profiles to Karpov. If he likes them, I... I acquire them. For money! Just for money!"
Sokolov was hyperventilating now.
"Karpov is the receiver! I hand them off to his logistics team, and they transport them to the Red Room! I never see where they go! I swear!"
47 continued to stare. The menace in his stillness was palpable.
Sokolov frantically searched his mind for anything else, anything to make the monster stop looking at him like that.
"They're moving!" Sokolov blurted out. "The Red Room... they're scared. Because of you! They're paranoid. Karpov said they're building something big. A mobile base. Something that can't be found on a map."
47's expression didn't change, but he filed the information away.
'A mobile base.'
"If they fear me," 47 asked quietly, "why send only one Widow?"
"They were sending more!" Sokolov cried. "A whole squad was en route! The one here... she was just the closest! You came too fast! We didn't think you'd be here today! Please... I gave you everything! I gave you the drive, the General, the Red Room! Please, spare me!"
47 looked at the panic room behind Sokolov. It was small, airtight, and stocked with food and water.
"You desired safety," 47 said. "You constructed a hole to hide from the world."
47 shoved Sokolov backward.
The Director stumbled into the steel box, falling onto the floor.
"Wait!" Sokolov yelled, scrambling up. "What are you doing?"
47 grabbed the handle of the heavy steel door.
"Granting your wish," 47 said.
He slammed the door shut.
CLANG.
The seals engaged. The locking mechanism spun.
Sokolov was inside.
Safe and hidden. Just like he wanted.
47 turned the wheel, locking the bolts.
He then walked to the ventilation control panel on the wall next to the door. It controlled the air exchange for the panic room.
He looked at the settings. Auto / Manual / Off.
47 turned the dial to Off.
He broke the knob off with a sharp twist of his wrist and dropped it on the floor.
It would take hours for the air to run out. Hours of darkness. Hours of silence.
Hours to think about the children he had locked in rooms just like this one.
47 turned away.
He picked up his clipboard.
He adjusted his cap.
He walked toward the service exit that led to the sea caves below the cliff.
The contract was complete. The Widow was secured. The drive was acquired.
And Dimitri Sokolov would never be found.
He was just another vintage, laid down in the dark to rot.
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