After Owen left, Nikki stayed at the electronic telescope, eyes fixed on the situation across the street.
In the lens, Owen appeared briefly on the rooftop of the opposite building, then vanished from sight.
Inside, Pavlovich had just finished packing his things when the noise from downstairs caught his attention. He leaned out the window and saw Chikalyev being hassled by a gang of local teens.
"Chikalyev, what are you doing?"
"Oh, sorry! I'll be up in a moment… damn it, these little brats…"
Chikalyev was clearly pissed, but he couldn't exactly pull a gun on a bunch of punk kids.
"Hahaha~~~"
Seeing Chikalyev getting the short end of the stick, Pavlovich leaned leisurely on the windowsill, sipping his oversized wine glass and enjoying the show. Just as he was about to take another sip, he suddenly noticed something strange in the glass's reflection—two versions of himself.
What the hell?
Before he could make sense of it, a hand suddenly wrapped around his neck from behind. He was yanked to the floor, staring up at a face identical to his own—but the voice that came out of it was anything but his.
"Don't move. Stay quiet, or I'll have to shoot. Understand?"
Pavlovich forced himself to calm down and nodded. The man—Owen in disguise—pulled out a card and said, "Read this. Slowly."
Feeling the firm pressure of the gun against his neck, Pavlovich wisely chose to comply.
"The honor brought by the Bazby Corporation… fills me with immense satisfaction… He put a thumbtack on Princess Yang Xi's chair because she said he was a bad child. At the end of the month, he threw two kittens from one side of the room to the other… I rely on his plan to demonstrate…"
He stumbled his way through the nonsensical passage, then looked up, puzzled, unsure what any of this meant.
In Owen's earpiece, Nikki said, "Okay, hold on. System's synthesizing… almost there…"
On Nikki's screen, the voice synthesis progress bar was climbing rapidly, nearing 100%.
"Who… who the hell are you?" Pavlovich asked, beginning to piece things together. As a nuclear expert, he wasn't stupid—he just had never seen or heard of a silicone mask like this before. But now, with time to process, he was catching on.
Owen didn't respond. Nikki had just warned him that Makarov's man was coming up the stairs.
BANG
As Pavlovich's eyes filled with indignant confusion, Owen knocked him out cold. He quickly dragged the unconscious man to the wardrobe, opened the doors, and stuffed him inside.
He didn't even have time to close the doors before Chikalyev pushed the room door open. "Mr. Pavlovich, my apologies for the delay. These damned delinquents—Anyway, we need to move quickly. Anything you need help packing?"
Chikalyev began to step inside. Owen, panicked, raised his hand in a "stop" gesture. The voice simulator hadn't finished syncing yet—he couldn't risk speaking.
Chikalyev paused, confused by Pavlovich's odd behavior. "Is something wrong?"
Still unable to speak, Owen feigned a coughing fit. Chikalyev, concerned, stepped forward again—only to be waved back once more.
From his angle, it looked like Pavlovich was organizing something in the wardrobe. One more step, and he would see the real Pavlovich stuffed inside.
Chikalyev frowned. Pavlovich was definitely acting strange.
Then, just in time, Nikki's voice came through Owen's earpiece: "Voice sync complete."
Owen let out a quiet breath of relief and spoke in Pavlovich's perfectly mimicked voice: "Don't come in. I'll pack myself. I don't like others touching my things."
The sound of his voice seemed to put Chikalyev at ease. "Understood, sir," he replied, staying at the doorway.
As nonchalantly as possible, Owen closed the wardrobe doors. Just before they shut, he slipped the plutonium override device from Pavlovich's pocket.
"This is all I need," he said, waving the device. "Everything else is irrelevant. Let's go."
He stepped out, hoping to lead Chikalyev away so Nikki could come in and retrieve the real Pavlovich.
But to Owen's dismay, Chikalyev lingered. Before leaving, he placed a bomb in the room.
"What's this for?" Owen asked.
"Apologies—Makarov's orders. We're to destroy the place after we leave. No traces."
Owen gave a forced nod and tried to sound casual. "How does it detonate? I'd rather not blow up before we're even gone."
"Remote trigger. Manual. I won't set it off until we're clear. Don't worry."
Chikalyev gave a reassuring gesture. Owen, internally, was cursing his luck. At this rate, Nikki wouldn't have enough time to save Pavlovich.
As they left, Owen gave the wardrobe one last glance. If Pavlovich died in the explosion, so be it. His survival wasn't critical to Owen's mission. What mattered was getting to Makarov.
Downstairs, Owen climbed into a sedan. The engine started, and the car pulled away. Just before it turned off the main road and disappeared, Chikalyev pressed a small remote.
BOOM
The second-floor apartment exploded into a fireball.
…
"Where are we going now?"
"You'll know when we get there."
On the road, Owen tried to get Chikalyev to spill Makarov's exact location, but he wouldn't say—whether out of secrecy or genuine ignorance, it wasn't clear.
The atmosphere in the car was tense. Owen asked no further questions. He trusted that NSA's satellites were already tracking them from above.
Makarov. Owen had spent so long trying to get close to him—and now, at last, the moment had come.
He felt a small knot of tension in his stomach but kept his expression neutral. The car drove into increasingly desolate terrain. They had entered the slums of Istanbul, the roads growing steeper as they ascended.
Finally, they stopped in an open clearing overlooking a cluster of ramshackle houses below.
On the clearing, two separate groups had already arrived. Neither seemed to care about hiding from the locals; both stood out clearly, set up in plain sight—ready to make a deal.
(End of Chapter)
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