Peace And Pistol

1. Tender And Terrific

The faint mist hung in the early morning air over the bustling city of Moscow as the sun crept above the horizon, casting golden rays upon the intricate architecture of the Kremlin. The streets were beginning to stir with the sounds of life-honking cars, footsteps, and the begining of a new day in a foreign land. For most, it was simply another Tuesday; for Samarth Batra, it was a day serving as the chief security officer for Prime Minister Kailash Bajwa during his critical diplomatic mission to Russia.

Samarth stood tall, his frame cutting an imposing figure against the backdrop of the luxurious hotel where the Indian Prime Minister was staying. With sharp features and dark, intense eyes that missed nothing, he exuded a presence that commanded respect from his peers. Samarth had been one of the best in his field, a seasoned protector who had spent years in the shadows, safeguarding leaders . Today, those shadows felt more intense, wrapping around him as he surveyed the surroundings with meticulous attention.

He adjusted his earpiece and spoke softly into it, ensuring that every member of his specialized SPG team could hear his directives. "Team A, cover the southern entrance. Team B, maintain surveillance on the rooftop. I want eyes everywhere. Clear?"

"Clear, sir," his team answered in unison, their voices steady, filled with adrenaline.

As Prime Minister Bajwa stepped out of the hotel, a dignified man in his early sixties, accompanied by several aides and a translator, the atmosphere changed. Samarth moved swiftly, positioning himself a few steps ahead of the Prime Minister, a man woven from steel and experience. He caught a glimpse of the Prime Minister's face-a mixture of determination and calm, the resolve of a man who had fought hard to wield power on the global stage.

The convoy was sleek and black, heavily armored for both protection and elegance. As they approached the vehicle, Samarth's tactical training kicked in, instinctively alert to the noise of the crowd, the rustle of coats, and the weight of every glare. He guided the Prime Minister and his entourage into the car, taking a calculated position just outside the open door, allowing only those authorized to enter.

"Keep the routes clear," he instructed the driver as he slid into the dispatcher seat, carefully assessing the landscape through his window. "And remember, maintain a steady speed. We can't afford any delays."

The voice in his earpiece reported back immediately, "All clear, Panther. We're ready to roll."

As the vehicles began to move, Samarth maintained a façade of calm, but his mind was abuzz like a swarm of bees. He recalled the briefings, the tips on navigating foreign terrain, the importance of reading body language, and, most importantly, the harsh reality of threats always lurking nearby. The nation still remember the assassination of Chandrasen Shikhwat. The name brought bitterness to him.

This trip was not just a diplomatic mission; it meant ensuring the Prime Minister's safety amid a charged international climate where tensions ran high.

The convoy wound its way through Moscow's streets-gleaming facades and historical monuments challenged his perception of beauty as he remained intensely focused. Within minutes, they reached their first engagement, a grand meeting set to take place at the sprawling Palais des Nations. As they approached, Samarth felt the tension mount. This was a pivotal rendezvous with Russian leaders, one that could reshape policies and strengthen alliances.

The convoy halted, and Samarth stepped out first, scanning the vicinity for any potential threats. Everything felt in place, but a rush of instinct urged him to take a harder look. He noticed a group of demonstrators in the distance, waving placards with slogans that cast a shadow on the visit. Voices rose in a fever pitch of anger. He quickly signaled to his team, "Keep the guests close and secure. We are not here for an audience."