“Sixty Minutes is doing a story on it this weekend. Along with every other newsmagazine. The idiot Gorshkov’s making it easy on us.”

“What about the incident?”

“You’re the incident,” Creel pointed out.

“It worked before without boots on the ground.”

“I’m not interested in wars that stop at a hundred days or devolve into glorified gangland street fights. That doesn’t even pay the light bill, Caesar.”

“Give me the plan and I’ll execute it, Mr. Creel, like always.”

“Just be ready to go.”

“It’s your dime,” said Caesar.

“You bet it is.”

On the chopper ride back to the Ares Building, Creel eyed the city’s concrete, glass, and steel temples below. You’re not in West Texas anymore, Nick.

This, of course, wasn’t just about money. Or saving his company. Creel had enough money and regardless of what he did or didn’t do, Ares Corp. would survive. No, this was really about putting the world back into its proper structure. Things had been misaligned for long enough. Creel had grown weary of watching the weak and savage dictate to the strong and civilized. He was about to set things right. Some might claim he was playing God. Well, in a way he was. But even a benign god used violence and destruction to make his point. Creel intended to follow that model to the letter.

Initially there would be pain.

There would be loss.

There always was. Indeed, his own father had been a victim of keeping the spectrum of world power on a firm footing, so Creel quite clearly understood the level of sacrifice required. But in the end it would all be worth it.

He settled back in his seat.

The creator of Konstantin knew a little.

Caesar knew a little.

Only Nicolas Creel knew all.

As gods always did.

CHAPTER 3

“WHAT’S THE ‘A’ STAND FOR?” the man asked in fluent English with a Dutch accent layered over it.