Premier House, Wellington – February 12th, 2040

  The night air was crisp against the glass walls of the conservatory, the soft glow of lanterns in the garden casting elongated shadows across the table where Prime Minister Miriama Kahu sat, swirling the remnants of her local Rosé in a stemless glass. Beyond the manicured gardens, the lights of Wellington shimmered across the harbour—small, distant, but constant—a quiet reminder of the nation she had sworn to protect.

  Across from her, Craig Du Plessis, her Deputy Prime Minister, her friend and closest political ally, leaned back in his chair, rolling the tension from his shoulders. They had campaigned together through thick and thin for the better part of a decade—opposition benches, bitter election fights, long nights in committee rooms, cabinet wars fought behind closed doors. They knew each other well enough to cut through the noise, to trust in the other's instincts.

  The day had been long—gruelling, even—filled with hours of meetings that had tested patience and resolve. Starting with troop dispositions, and individual briefings from her NZDF chiefs. Then came the heads of New Zealand's defence industry who had laid out the projections, the logistics, the cold arithmetic of national ambition. Everything the country had fought for—every budget increase, every deal signed, every gamble taken—had led them to this point.

  Miriama exhaled slowly, setting her glass down on the white linen tablecloth. The flickering candlelight caught in the reddish threads streaking through her dark hair.

  "Tell me we can do this, Craig."

  Her voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of everything they had built—everything they stood to lose.

  Craig's eyes flicked up from his half-empty glass of scotch, the amber liquid glowing in the low light. For a moment, his weathered face was unreadable—then he nodded once, slow and deliberate. His voice, when it came, was rough with conviction.

  "We can do it, Miri." He leaned forward, forearms resting on the table. "It's not going to be easy—it never was—but everything we've built, every decision we've made... it's led us here. We hold the pieces now. It's just a matter of how we move them."

  Miriama's eyes drifted to the half-eaten meal in front of her—a simple plate of poached South Island fish, boiled fresh garden potatoes slick with New Zealand butter and mint, and crisp salad greens from the local market. She had barely touched it, the weight of the day pressing heavier than hunger.

  Fifteen years ago, the idea of New Zealand standing as a regional power—self-sufficient, armed, and exporting military hardware to allies—would have seemed absurd. Now...

  Now there were fighter jets and UAVs rolling off the lines at Boeing NZ in Hamilton.

  Armoured vehicles and tanks coming out of Palmerston North, Waiouru, and the Robinson Engineering Works in Stratford—already earning a reputation for rugged reliability in African peacekeeping missions and alongside Commonwealth partners.

  Oceania Naval Works had turned Nelson and Whangārei into shipbuilding powerhouses, the Mako-class submarines, Province-class destroyers and Kahu-class corvettes already making waves in the Pacific.

  Satellites. Radar systems. Missiles. Rockets. Small arms. Ammunition. All of it produced locally, under license or through joint ventures—refined, improved, and perfected on home soil. All built from locally made steel and the sweat of New Zealand’s brow. Local industries flourishing, from production to logistics, from manufacturing to agriculture. Food, fuel, textiles, appliances and technology all produced locally again, with the rail and road network rebuilt to support it all. What had once seemed a pipe dream had, through relentless strategic investment, political will, and meticulous reinvestment of oil and gas revenues, become something very few outside the country had fully grasped yet.

  A self-sufficient nation, with a strong military-industrial complex.

  Miriama knew the figures by heart—she had fought for every detail of every deal, every line item in the Defence Capability Plans over the years, dogged the opposition tooth and nail, now she understood what they had been planning for.

  But tonight, she didn't need the statistics, she needed assurance. And Craig's voice—low, guttural, certain, the sound of his original homeland left so long ago still plain to hear in his voice—cut through the doubt.

  Her fingers tapped lightly against the table. "So this is it. The moment we prove we can stand on our own."

  Craig's smile was small, wry. He swirled his glass, the solitary ice cube clinking softly against the sides.

  "Not just stand, Miri. Lead."

  The words sent a shiver down her spine.

  That was the truth at the heart of it—the thing no one would dare say aloud until the moment was upon them. New Zealand wasn't just securing its own future anymore. If everything they had built over the last fifteen years held—if the weapons, the ships, the satellites, the alliances—if it all worked...

  They wouldn't just be a player on the Pacific chessboard. They would be one of the kingmakers.

  Miriama glanced down at her plate, appetite still absent.

  "You should finish your meal." Craig's voice was steady, with that familiar edge of dry humour. He swirled the last of his scotch. "You'll need your strength in the coming days."

  From anyone else, she might have bristled at the instruction. But from him... she saw the sense in it. Craig's plate was already empty. He always finished his meals—another soldier's habit he'd never quite lost.

  She looked at the plate, the meal did look delicious, her cook had excelled himself that evening as he usually did, the fish poached to perfection, the potatoes at the perfect level of softness, the salad just the way she liked it. She felt a small pang of guilt at ignoring it and picked up her fork—pushing a small bite of fish between her lips—forcing herself into the simple act of chewing. The warm saltiness grounded her, if only for a moment, but her hunger blossomed.

  While her plate emptied her mind was already drifting—circling back to the meeting that had stretched through most of the afternoon. Not the logistics or projections—she could recite those in her sleep by now. It was the silence that had stayed with her.

  The brief flickers of exchanged glances across the long conference table. The small pauses before certain answers were given. Craig must have seen it too—he had barely touched his notes all afternoon, watching the room the way his former life as a fighter pilot would watch the horizon.

  "I don't like how the numbers came through from Nelson." She spoke quietly, not entirely sure why she was saying it out loud.

  Craig's glass paused mid-sip. "You think they're cooking the books?"

  She shook her head slowly. "No... not the money. The manifests."

  Craig's brow furrowed, the gears turning behind those pale blue eyes.

  Oceania Naval Works had delivered on every target ahead of schedule for the last ten years. The shipyards in Nelson and Whangārei were the pride of the new military-industrial push—the crown jewel of New Zealand's transformation into a Pacific power.

  But in the last month...

  Delays. Missing inventory. Paperwork that didn't quite line up. Small things—easy to explain away. But the kind of small things that stacked up to the inevitable snowball that crushed the village.

  "Could be nothing," Craig said carefully, but there was no conviction in it.

  Miriama took another small bite—forcing herself to chew, to taste. The fish was delicate and full of amazing flavour, but it barely registered. Her eyes drifted to the city lights beyond the gardens, their fractured glow mirrored in the harbour below.

  They had come so far. Fifteen years of calculated risks of cutting against the grain of the old pacifist orthodoxy—remaking the country from the inside out. There had been plenty of critics along the way—at home and abroad— her amongst them, but the simple truth was, no one had expected them to pull it off.

  No one had believed that New Zealand—little New Zealand—could build a self-sufficient war machine from nothing. But they had and someone had been watching.

  "I think this is our old friend ‘Iron Lotus’ at play again, I want Sinclair's team to run a sweep," she said finally, the words tasting bitter in her mouth.

  Craig's glass froze halfway to his lips. There it was. The unspoken weight that had been hanging between them all night. Nathan Liu. Iron Lotus.

  He was supposed to be one of their own—a bright star from the new generation of the National Party, pulled into the tent after the coalition victory in 2023. Now the Shadow Defence Minister—the one man who could walk into any weapons factory, shipyard, or intelligence office in the country without a second glance.

  Miriama had never liked him. Too smooth. Too polished. Too careful. But he'd built his entire career on pragmatism—the kind of quiet operator who made himself indispensable by never stepping too far out of line. And that was what terrified her.

  Because Nathan Liu really was not who he said he was—Iron Lotus had embedded himself in the heart of the system they had built—and if they weren’t careful, then everything they had spent fifteen years fighting for was already lost.

  Craig was watching her carefully now.

  "You think there's something in the manifests," he said slowly. "You want him to find it, or cover it?"

  It was a razor-edged question—one they both knew had only one answer.

  "If Liu is behind this..."

  She couldn't finish the thought.

  Craig's knuckles tapped lightly against the table.

  "If he is—this could be bad for us."

  The silence stretched between them, thicker than the night pressing against the glass. The world still saw New Zealand as neutral ground—a small, clean country punching above its weight. What no one outside Miriama’s cabinet truly understood was that the game had changed. They weren't just building weapons for themselves anymore. For months they had been building them for Canberra. For Tokyo. For Seoul. For Taipei. Filling in the gaps in the ever dwindling American supply chain.

  And the price of becoming a kingmaker was that every empire on the board wanted a hand on the crown.

  Miriama set her fork down carefully on the white linen tablecloth. She stared out at the city lights—feeling the shiver crawl up the back of her neck.

  "Run the sweep," she said softly. "Quietly."

  Craig didn't move for a long moment—then gave a small, slow nod.

  They both knew what this meant.

  If they pulled on this thread... If they went looking for the cracks in the machine, they had built... They might not like what they found.

  Miriama picked up her glass again, swirling the last dregs of wine. The warmth no longer reached her. Iron Lotus was already inside the garden.

  And the world was watching.

  ***

  Nelson Shipyards – Same Night, 01:32 NZDT

  The smell of salt and burnt metal clung to the air — thick, heavy, oppressive. The kind of smell that settled in your lungs and never quite left. Far below the catwalk, the cavernous belly of Drydock Four stretched out into the gloom — a skeletal cathedral of steel and shadows. The matte-black hulls of two unfinished Kahu-class corvettes lined the slipways, their angular forms broken by scaffolding and welding rigs. Under the pale, flickering arc lights, they looked like sleeping predators — waiting for the ocean to wake them.

  The low thrum of generators echoed through the space, vibrating faintly beneath Nathan Liu’s boots. He stood alone on the elevated walkway, hands resting lightly on the cold steel rail. A half-smoked cigarette dangled from his fingers, the ember flaring orange in the dark. He didn't smoke often. Only on nights like this.

  Nights when he made contact.

  Below, the final loading of the manifests was underway — pallets of missile components wheeled into sealed shipping containers by teams of silent men. They worked without hurry, without questions. Veterans from the old mobilisation — hired through Koru Logistics, born out of the oil boom and the scramble to rebuild New Zealand’s industrial base.

  Good men. Loyal men. Well-paid men.

  Men who would never ask why some crates disappeared from the records. Men who knew better than to notice the extra paperwork Nathan slipped into the supply chains.

  He watched them through the drifting haze of cigarette smoke, feeling the slight weight pressing against his chest — the flash drive sewn into the lining of his jacket.

  Inside it were the numbers — the kind of numbers that could bring the whole machine crashing down.

  Every serial number. Every discrepancy. Every shipment that had passed through the quiet pipeline he'd built — stretching from Nelson to Port Klang, across the South China Sea to Guangzhou.

  Not everything, of course. The Australians, the Canadians, the British, the Japanese, the Koreans — they all got what they paid for. What he took was the bleed-off. One percent here. A half-crate there. Just enough for the Chinese scientists to study without anyone noticing the gap.

  Small cracks. Barely visible at first. But given enough time, even small cracks could hollow out the strongest foundations. Fifteen years. That’s how long it had taken to crack New Zealand from the inside out.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  The cigarette burned down to the filter. Nathan flicked it over the railing, watching the ember arc through the dark before hissing out in the oily black water below.

  PRIME PHASE UNLOCKED. ENCRYPTION SENT. IRON LOTUS ACTIVE.

  Twenty minutes ago, the burst transmission had gone out — buried inside a civilian satellite relay over the South Pacific, triple-encrypted through MSS cutouts in Kuala Lumpur and Jakarta.

  It was the kind of message no one would ever notice unless they knew exactly what to look for — a single data burst, smaller than a social media notification. Just a whisper in the noise.

  He'd been sending them for years.

  The flash drive in his pocket was the last one.

  Nathan's fingers closed lightly around the slim shape beneath his jacket. Retrieving the data had been risky this time. The Defence Minister’s office had grown cautious — Miriama Kahu’s fingerprints were all over the new audits. The gaps she had seen were the gaps he had left... but she was getting close now.

  Too close.

  Another month — maybe two — and NZSIS would start pulling at the right threads. Sinclair was sharp. The agency’s cyber unit was sharper. They were already circling the Nelson yards — sniffing around the contracts, the shell companies, the supply chains.

  If they followed the trail long enough, they’d find him.

  He had always known the day would come when the mask would slip — when the polite smiles and carefully cultivated reputation would give way to the truth. Iron Lotus would burn — a whisper carved into the bones of New Zealand’s rise.

  But by then, it wouldn’t matter. The groundwork was already laid — deeper than anyone in Wellington could see.

  The first crack had been the oil money — a flood of wealth pouring into the country faster than the government could build the institutions to contain it.

  Then the defence spending — billions funnelled into the new military-industrial complex, propping up shipyards, arms manufacturers, and logistics firms faster than they could vet them. Nathan had watched the machine grow from the inside — watched them build the fortress without ever checking the foundations.

  They thought they were the architects of a new age. What none of them realized — not the National Party, not the opposition — was that they had simply been building someone else’s empire.

  His empire.

  Beijing’s empire.

  It had always been bigger than New Zealand. Bigger than him.

  The Kahu-class corvettes below — sharp-edged, silent killers built to defend the Pacific — carried their own betrayal stitched into the circuits of their fire control systems. The satellites New Zealand had put into orbit to watch China would one day turn their eyes the other way. The radar systems. The missiles. The drones. All of it — a weapon they didn’t even know they had already lost.

  Nathan's pulse ticked slower.

  The cigarette was gone now. He didn't need it anymore.

  He slipped the flash drive into a small steel box from his jacket pocket — cracked the thin glass vial inside and sealed the lid. Acid would eat through the circuits in less than ninety seconds.

  No evidence. No proof.

  Just whispers in the dark.

  He let the box fall from his hand — listening for the faint splash as it joined his cigarette butt in the black water below. By the time they found him — if they ever found him — the fuse would already be lit.

  They thought they had built a fortress.

  He'd made sure the foundations were already hollow.

  ***

  Premier House – February 13th, 2040. 03:14 NZDT

  Miriama couldn't sleep. She stood barefoot in the lounge, wrapped in a loose robe — the remains of a nightcap still on the table, untouched.

  Craig's words echoed in her mind. "If he is—this could be bad for us."

  Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. She hated this feeling — this creeping sense of something slipping beyond her control. For years, she'd convinced herself that the greatest threat to New Zealand's rise would come from the outside—from the old powers trying to pull them back into the shadows. It had never occurred to her that the rot might have taken hold from the inside.

  Her hand hovered over the encrypted terminal built into the edge of the glass table. One word to Sinclair would set the sweep in motion. One word would start the hunt. But once she sent it, there would be no turning back. She exhaled slowly, fingers brushing the keypad.

  One word.

  "Iron."

  The message blinked away. It was done.

  Somewhere in the distance, the first hints of dawn began to bloom over the city — casting pale light across the harbour. By the time the sun rose, the hunt would be underway. But the truth was already darker than she could imagine.

  The mole was already inside the walls. The cracks were already running deep through the machine they had built.

  And Iron Lotus... Iron Lotus was already awake.

  ***

  Pipitea Street, Wellington. – February 13th, 2040. 03:32 NZDT

  It was early morning when Charles Sinclair, Director of the New Zealand Security Intelligence Service, received the message that sent a ripple of uneasy excitement through his entire office. The transcripts from the latest 'Iron Lotus' intercepts sat on his desk. There was no hiding it now; he had kept the Prime Minister in the dark long enough. The missing military stock had been one of his ideas—his carefully laid plans. Through a series of perfectly placed tidbits and just the right amount of bait, Nathan Liu had been led to New Zealand’s new and ultra-secret hypersonic anti-ship missile project, being developed at Oceania Naval Works.

  Sinclair had known this moment would come. It was only a matter of time. This wasn’t the only plan he had in motion; he couldn’t make it easy or obvious. That would have surely tipped Liu off. No, he had to lay the groundwork and wait to see which crumb Liu picked up. But now that he had, the weight of responsibility settled in.

  He stared out of the windows of his dimly lit office, the shadows of New Zealand's skyline stretching across the city. For a moment, he allowed himself to think—what now? The magnitude of the situation was clear. The ‘missiles’ Liu had arranged to be stolen were fakes—every single one of them. They looked good and would probably fool the boys in Beijing for a while, but they wouldn’t win any medals.

  The intelligence, however, was damning. Liu, the shadow Minister for Defence, had long been under suspicion. His ties to Beijing, his movements, the quiet yet unmistakable power he wielded behind the scenes—everything pointed to Liu orchestrating something far more dangerous than anyone had realized. Within the intercept was information on troop movements, convoy schedules, and naval unit allocations. That data was real but not catastrophic. Sinclair had already sent coded messages to alter the information and dispatched teams to trace the leaks. As far as Liu went, they had the ultimate proof.

  But what now? How to act? The dilemma weighed heavily on Sinclair as he prepared for the inevitable meeting with Prime Minister Kahu and Deputy Prime Minister Du Plessis. He had already heard murmurings of their growing impatience. They wanted results. But Sinclair wasn’t so sure that the immediate elimination of Liu was the right course of action.

  ***

  Prime Minister’s Office, The Beehive, Wellington – February 13th, 2040. 08:32 NZDT

  The heavy doors to the Prime Minister’s office swung open with a soft thud, and Charles Sinclair stepped inside. The faintest scent of freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air, mixing with the sterile chill of the room. The blinds were drawn, casting the room in a dim, controlled light. Prime Minister Kahu sat behind her polished desk, her posture erect, her eyes steely. Deputy Prime Minister Du Plessis, standing by the window, stared out at the skyline of Wellington with an air of quiet impatience. Neither of them spoke as Sinclair approached.

  The tension in the room was palpable. Sinclair had known this moment would come—the moment when they would demand answers. He couldn’t tell if it was the weight of the situation or the unspoken expectations that had him feeling so heavy. Maybe it was both. He took his place opposite Kahu, his hands resting in front of him, the weight of the documents he’d brought now feeling heavier than ever.

  Kahu didn’t waste time. She leaned forward, her voice cutting through the stillness. "So, Sinclair, what are we dealing with here?"

  Sinclair met her gaze. "We have confirmation. Liu took the bait, and in doing so, has proven that he believes himself still in play." He paused, letting the words hang in the air for a moment before continuing. "But it’s more complicated than that."

  Du Plessis turned, eyes narrowing. "What do you mean, complicated? We have the proof, Liu’s been caught red-handed." His voice was sharp, impatient. "We’re talking about a high-ranking official who’s been feeding information to Beijing. What’s there to complicate?"

  Sinclair’s expression remained neutral, but the slightest tension in his shoulders betrayed his unease. "The fakes, yes, that was part of the plan, they were designed to look convincing. Long enough to keep Beijing satisfied for a while. It’s a carefully orchestrated game, and Liu is playing it perfectly.”

  “Game?” Du Plessis growled. “What Game?”

  “I’m sorry Mr Deputy Prime Minister, now that we have Liu on the hook, we can read you in, Ma’am you too. This was all part of the operation you authorised several months ago. Now that we know we can lead Liu where we want to take him, it doesn’t matter if we can turn him or not, he’s our spy regardless.”

  Du Plessis shot a look at Kahu, she put her hand out to still him. “I’m sorry Craig, I didn’t want to leave you out, but I didn’t have a choice, I had no idea what department was feeding the information to Liu, for all I knew it was coming from this office, that was why I was kept mostly in the dark as well.”

  Anger flashed through the deputy Prime Minister, but it was short lived. He didn’t like it, but he understood the necessity of it and besides, he would very likely have done the same. While the colour of his face returned to somewhat normal, he gave his friend a look that showed his disappointment and understanding in equal measures.

  “The bigger issue, though,” Sinclair continued, “is the real intelligence—the troop movements, the convoy schedules, the naval allocations. It’s all true and could only have come from one place."

  “Defence!” Kahu’s brow furrowed. "And you’ve sent out teams to contain the damage?"

  "Yes, Prime Minister, already done," Sinclair replied quickly. "The information has been altered, and we’ve already initiated damage control, it was a low level leak, a former staffer of Liu’s. We have dealt with him quietly, but we need to tread carefully. If we make our move too soon, Liu might suspect something’s wrong."

  Du Plessis paced, his mind clearly racing. "We need him gone, Sinclair. Now. The longer we leave him in place, the more damage he can do. What am I missing here, why are you dragging this out?"

  Sinclair’s gaze flicked between the two of them. The Prime Minister’s resolve was clear, but Du Plessis was the one pressing for action. The Deputy PM had no patience for nuances. It was always about results with him.

  "I understand your urgency," Sinclair said, his voice steady. "But Liu’s been in this game a long time. If we just cut him out now, it’ll send a message to Beijing that we’ve caught him. That’ll only make him more dangerous—more cautious. I believe we can still use him."

  Kahu leaned back in her chair, her fingers steepled in front of her lips. "Use him? For what?"

  Sinclair’s eyes narrowed slightly. "We leave him in place, just as before. He’s been feeding information to Beijing, but if we continue feeding him just enough—enough to keep Beijing interested, to keep him convinced that we’re playing along—he’ll keep operating and whether he knows it or not, he’ll keep working for us."

  Du Plessis let out a sharp breath, his jaw tight. "You’re suggesting we let him keep playing this game? After everything he’s done?"

  "Yes," Sinclair said calmly. "We need him to think he’s beating us. Keep him comfortable. Give him just enough to keep Beijing satisfied while we manipulate them. If we make him feel cornered, he’ll run, and we’ll lose the opportunity to use him to our advantage."

  Kahu leaned forward, her eyes sharp as she regarded Sinclair. "And you’re confident that this will work?"

  Sinclair’s gaze didn’t waver. "I am."

  There was a long silence as Kahu and Du Plessis exchanged a look, the weight of the decision settling in. Kahu’s face was unreadable, but Du Plessis looked uneasy, his arms folded across his broad chest.

  "This is a dangerous game, Sinclair," Du Plessis finally said. "If you’re wrong…"

  "I’m not wrong," Sinclair interrupted, his voice cutting through the air. "I’ve been planning this for months. Trust me, the longer we leave him in place, the more we can use him."

  Kahu studied Sinclair for a long moment before nodding slowly. "Alright. We’ll play it your way—for now."

  Du Plessis exhaled sharply, clearly dissatisfied but unable to argue further. "Just don’t make me regret this."

  "I won’t," Sinclair assured him. "I’ve already set things in motion."

  Kahu rose from her chair, her voice firm as she addressed Sinclair. "Then we wait. But you’re walking a very fine line, Sinclair. Don’t make us regret this decision."

  Sinclair stood, nodding. "Understood, Prime Minister. I’ll keep you updated."

  As Sinclair turned to leave, the weight of the decision hung heavy in the air. It was a dangerous game, but it was the only game they had. And Sinclair had no intention of losing.

  ***

  The Prime Minister’s Office, The Beehive, Wellington – February 13th, 2040. 09:15 NZDT

  As the door clicked shut behind Sinclair, Kahu’s gaze lingered on the empty space where he had stood. The silence in the room now felt oppressive, a weight that neither she nor Du Plessis seemed willing to break.

  Kahu stood, pacing slowly behind her desk, the sharp sound of her heels cutting through the quiet. Her mind raced through the implications of Sinclair’s plan. If they played this right, they could use Liu as a double agent of sorts, keeping Beijing on the hook while feeding them just enough to keep the illusion intact. But it was a dangerous gamble, and one that Kahu had little room for failure on. A misstep now, and the entire operation could unravel.

  Du Plessis, still standing near the window, crossed his arms, his posture rigid. His eyes flicked to the horizon, but it was clear he wasn’t seeing the view. His mind was elsewhere—on the risks, the potential fallout.

  Finally, Kahu spoke, her voice cutting through the tension. "Do you think he’s right? Is Sinclair’s plan the only way forward?"

  Du Plessis turned to face her, his expression unreadable. "I don’t trust Sinclair. You know that, Miri. But I trust the facts. And the facts are that Liu is still playing the game. If we pull him out too soon, it’ll blow everything wide open. Beijing will know we’ve been onto him and god only knows what that would lead to."

  “I didn’t trust Sinclair either or even like him at first. But since this all began, he has never failed me, never failed us,” She stated softly, “make no mistake, he is a dedicated soldier to the cause, and he has earned my trust”

  Du Plessis shot a glance at Miriama, studying her face. The face he knew so well, the one he could always read. “I believe you.” He said.

  Kahu nodded, her face tight with resolve. "We don’t have the luxury of time. Everyday Liu is in place is another day we risk him feeding the Chinese the wrong information. What happens when Beijing starts questioning him? He’ll start getting sloppy, and we’ll lose the upper hand."

  Du Plessis’s eyes narrowed. "That’s exactly why I wanted him gone yesterday. If we wait too long, we might just be setting ourselves up for the next disaster."

  Kahu leaned against the desk, her arms crossed, thoughtful. "I hear you. But Sinclair’s point about making Liu think he’s still useful—it’s not just about keeping Beijing at bay. It’s about positioning ourselves for the future. If we can keep him hooked, then we have access to whatever he’s feeding them, whether he wants us to or not. We’ll control the flow of information. We need that."

  Kahu's fingers tightened on the edge of the desk, the weight of Sinclair’s trust a heavy mantle on her shoulders. What if he was wrong? What if she was wrong? The thought gnawed at her, but she shoved it aside. There was no time for hesitation now. They were already too far in.

  "Control," Du Plessis muttered under his breath. "Everything’s about control, isn’t it? But there’s only so much we can control before it slips from our grasp."

  Her father’s face flickered in her mind briefly—the man who had always warned her that power came with a price. She had learned that lesson the hard way. She missed his council, his calming words, but she could still hear his voice, his disappointment in her after her first business venture had gone sideways all those years ago. What would he think of her now? Would he be proud? She couldn’t afford another failure, not now, not with everything on the line.

  "I’m aware of the risks, Craig," Kahu replied, her voice soft but firm. "But right now, I think Sinclair’s plan is our best shot. If he’s wrong, we’ll take care of it. But we won’t act on impulse."

  Du Plessis gave a short nod, though his jaw remained tight. "I’m not in love with it Miri. But I’ll go along with it—for now."

  Kahu’s eyes flicked to him. "Good. But make no mistake, Craig. If this goes south, we’ll need to act quickly. I trust you’ll be ready for that."

  Du Plessis met her gaze, his expression hardening. "You won’t be alone in this, Miri. I don’t trust Sinclair, but I trust you. Let’s just hope we don’t regret this."

  There was a finality to his words, a cold understanding that they were now locked into this dangerous game with no turning back. Kahu gave him a nod, then moved to the window herself, her eyes lingering on the same view Du Plessis had just vacated. The city of Wellington sprawled beneath them, its streets calm and unaware of the storm brewing within the walls of the Beehive.

  The decision had been made, and there was no room for second-guessing now.

  "Get me the full team in two hours," Kahu said, her voice steady. "We move forward as planned. And we make damn sure we’re the ones controlling this, not Liu, not Beijing. Understood?"

  "Understood," Du Plessis replied, his voice cold and unwavering.

  As Kahu watched the distant hills bathed in the early morning light, she could feel the weight of the coming storm settling over her. She had walked this tightrope before—when you play at the highest levels, sometimes the only way to win is to make sure you never lose sight of your objective.

  Gazing out over the city, her mind briefly flickered to the past—another decision made in haste, another risk that had shattered everything. She’d learned since then, had to learn. But that sharp sting of regret still lingered in her chest, a constant reminder that the path of leadership was often lined with hard choices. She couldn’t afford to make that mistake again.

  And today, her objective was clear. She would make sure this operation didn’t just succeed—it would be the one that changed everything.

  “What are we going to tell them?”

  Kahu didn’t answer right away. She looked out over the water in the harbour — it wasn’t the beach side that she had grown up with in the Manawatu, but it was close. She remembered the times spent at Himitangi, nestled under a warm blanket with her father, long line fishing poles stretching way out into the cold surf. She remembered what he had told her as a girl, telling her that power was like the tide. It could lift you or drown you, but you could never stop it from moving.

  Sinclair’s plan would work — or it wouldn’t. Either way, they were committed now.

  "Control what you can, accept what you can’t."

  Her father’s words echoed in her mind. She wondered, not for the first time, whether he’d ever believed them himself — or if he’d just said them to convince himself he had any power at all.

  "We move forward," she said again, more to herself than to Du Plessis. "We know where the leak is now, and we make damn sure the tide turns on our terms."