Rainbow Six: November Sun

62: "LOOSE ENDS"

That night....

MOSCOW, RUSSIA
TVERSKOY DISTRICT
VALERIYA SHUMEYKO'S RESIDENCE

Deputy Prime Minister Valeriya Shumeyko poured herself a glass of wine. She swirled the glass about before closing her eyes and delicately taking in the revealed aromas.

She was getting a floral, flowery scent; possibly something more exotic? Something tropical?

Shumeyko tilted the glass to her lips and savored the flavor as she sipped the wine. She let out a satisfied sigh, placed her glass on the marble countertop in her kitchen, and fished her phone out of her pocket.

She wondered at that moment if she could be considered evil. Conscience was something the woman had left behind in Beslan the day she was scarred by tragedy. When she watched the soldiers who were meant to protect her and her schoolmates instead use reckless, chaotic force with no qualms for innocent casualties, Valeriya's soul had blackened permanently.

There was no coming back from that.

She had aced her collegiate studies and put herself on the fast track in the Russian government, and Shumeyko was the youngest woman to have ever held the office of Deputy Prime Minister.

She glanced at her phone and opened the text message she had received hours earlier, one she probably should have deleted.

Five minutes.

The woman took a deep breath and another sip of wine. That was the last she had heard from Boris. He had been more than cooperative so far, having provided her with the location of the meeting with Khatri.

Men were so fickle. He had been easy to buy off. It was pathetic, really; Boris had thrown years of loyalty and friendship away for a semi-large sum of money that he, of course, would never actually receive.

Perhaps his weak character was the reason Shumeyko had not yet heard from him. Maybe Boris killed Matvei, as discussed, but decided to take the nuke himself and go rogue?

She sipped her wine and sighed, rounding the corner of her kitchen island to stare out at the city lights. She saw her reflection in the glass, brushed stray wisps of hair into place.

Valeriya froze. Her eyes widened when she saw the man behind her in the shadows, in dark clothing. He had raised a gloved hand to aim a—

A suppressed gunshot snapped in the kitchen. Deputy Prime Minister Shumeyko slumped lifelessly to the floor. Her assailant stood over her callously and shot her twice more in the head before turning to walk out of the kitchen, turning out the lights before he left.

* * *

THE KREMLIN - MOSCOW

President Vikhrov stood on the balcony of his home, admiring the city lights with a glass of chilled vodka in-hand. He was thinking of the debacle in Washington, D.C., and he realized he appreciated the view of the city even more than he did before.

He was a resolute, strong, charismatic, man - cold, by nature, though he loved his country and his people - so Vikhrov was not especially used to being sentimental about anything.

The man set his drink down and swept his hand gently against the ornate carvings in the concrete railing of the balcony.

After D.C., he wondered if maybe he should try to be more sentimental. More appreciative of the little things in life; he had worked hard to get where he was, after all.

Vikhrov rolled up the sleeves of his white-collar business shirt to his elbows before scooping up his glass again. He turned to the two bodyguards stationed behind him. "Drink?" he asked, pointing to the bottle on the table.

One of the men bowed his head slightly with respect. "Thank you, sir, but we can't drink during shifts. Apologies."

The Russian President was about to debate the matter when the sliding glass door to the balcony cracked open, and his wife, a sharply-dressed, equally formidable presence, smiled at him as he turned to greet her. "I'm going to bed, Daniil."

"Already?" he asked, stepping to her. "It's early."

"I know," she sighed. "I have a headache." She kissed her husband, wished the bodyguards a goodnight, and turned to fade back into their house. "Love you," she called over her shoulder.

"Love you too," Vikhrov called. He watched his wife disappear upstairs before turning back to the view over the city.

His phone rang at last.

The man set his glass down. He lifted it to his ear, and waved his bodyguards away. The men quickly retreated inside and shut the door behind them.

Vikhrov cleared his throat and answered. "Yes?"

"It's done, sir."

"All of it?"

"Yes, sir."

President Vikhrov nodded. "Khorosho." He ended the call without a further word.

The FSB had been onto Shumeyko for some time, and it was through her, with actionable - and legally questionable - surveillance, that the agency discovered the identities of the Federov brothers, along with their contact with extremists in India.

Matvei and Yegor Federov. The treasonous Deputy Prime Minister Shumeyko. Khatri and his entourage.

All were dead, nullified. Erased, along with the rest of the November Sun cell.

All except Petr Tverdovsky, the sole survivor now entombed in a Belgian prison for what would certainly be the rest of his life.

Tverdovsky wasn't a problem. He was no mastermind - just a man angry enough to join the Federov brothers' crusade, now finding himself on the wrong side of things.

He would have Tverdovsky killed, anyway.

President Vikhrov toasted the stars above and took a long swig of vodka. As he walked upstairs to join the First Lady, he found himself still wondering about the meaning behind November Sun's name.