Social Transformation Network Community Organization Programme

Time to pull down those mineral rich asteroids. Yes.

The engine’s growl was closer now—headlights slicing through the pines, sweeping across the snow like searching eyes.

Mweya dropped to one knee in the shadows, signaling with two fingers. Marko melted into a snowbank, Bohdan’s rifle barrel shifted slightly in the dark.

Through the earpiece, Bohdan’s voice was a thin, cold whisper:

“Vehicle. Black Volga. Two armed, front seat. Not FSB uniforms—possibly private security.”

Mweya calculated fast. Orlov’s dacha was only twenty meters ahead, its south balcony spilling pale light onto the snow. Inside, the general was still hunched over his maps. The Volga meant unplanned company—and no clean escape if they got too close.

Change of plan.
Mweya slid forward, pressing his back against the cold wood of the balcony steps. From his coat, he withdrew the suppressed pistol, checking the chamber by touch.

Bohdan counted down over comms:
“Three… two… one…”

The first pfft cracked through the winter air—one of the balcony guards dropped silently, a red bloom in the snow. The second spun, rifle half-raised, before Marko’s shot caught him under the jaw. The balcony was theirs.

Mweya moved.
In one fluid motion, he pushed open the door, stepping into the warm, dim-lit room. The smell of to***co and stale cognac clung to the air. Orlov’s head snapped up, eyes wide at the sudden intrusion—recognition flashing for a split second.

“Kto—” he began, but the word died in a muffled thunk it
One round to the heart, another to the head. The maps on his desk fluttered as he slumped forward, blood pooling across Europe.

Outside, the Volga braked hard, doors flying open. Two silhouettes emerged, pistols drawn. Mweya didn’t wait—he vaulted the balcony rail, landing in the snow below as Bohdan stitched both men with precise shots before they could fire.

The night swallowed them.
Three minutes later, the team was in a stolen maintenance van, heaters blasting, rifles hidden beneath tarps. Behind them, Moscow’s sirens began to wail, but the hunters were already gone—heading for their next name on the list.

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next target Putin himself, with Mweya infiltrating the Kremlin under full lockdown.

Snow fell like powdered glass under the yellow haze of Moscow’s streetlights.

Arap Mweya stepped off the freight truck at a deserted rail yard, boots crunching on ice. The wind cut sharp across the open space, carrying the faint echo of distant traffic. His breath came in slow, measured clouds as he scanned the shadows—three sharp flashes from a distant rooftop told him his team was in position.

They were ghosts tonight.
Two Ukrainian snipers—Marko and Bohdan—had slipped in a week earlier, blending in with migrant construction crews. Now they occupied overwatch positions in abandoned apartment blocks, rifles cradled, optics zeroed in on the first target: **General Orlov**, Putin’s military architect.

The city was crawling with FSB counterintelligence. Every alley had a camera, every subway tunnel had plainclothes watchers. To beat that net, Mweya’s team moved in layers—no one carried weapons through the open; caches had been buried under construction debris, or hidden inside gutted heating pipes days earlier.

At a checkpoint near Petrovsky Park, two officers waved cars through with bored faces. Mweya’s van rolled up, Marko in the passenger seat pretending to be half-drunk. A forged delivery manifest and a few muttered words in broken Russian were enough to get a lazy nod. They drove on.

The final stretch to Orlov’s dacha was the most dangerous.
A forest road, narrow and slick with ice, wound between snow-heavy pines. They moved on foot now, each man spaced thirty meters apart, rifles hidden under insulated coats. Above them, Bohdan’s voice came through the earpiece in a whisper:

“Two guards, thermal signatures, south balcony. You’ve got ninety seconds before they change shift.”

Mweya’s gloved fingers brushed the butt of his suppressed pistol.

He moved, slow and deliberate, the snow muffling each step. Through the frosted glass of the balcony door, Orlov’s shape was visible—head bent over a stack of maps, unaware that death was walking toward him.

Somewhere beyond the trees, the faint roar of an engine grew louder. An unscheduled arrival.
The mission clock began to burn.

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Next: the kill sequence—how Mweya executes the first hit and vanishes into Moscow’s night before the FSB can lock down the city.