At the same time.
The road leads back to Tool's tattoo shop. Ross and the others crowded the back room, maps and feeds spread across the table. Toll Road shook his head and exhaled. "My surveillance failed. Cole has a master hacker on his side."
Ross rubbed his jaw. "If Cole were a lone merc, we'd handle it. A single operator is manageable. But if he's got a team—computer supremacy and a knife master who can match Yin Yang—this gets a lot harder." He glanced sideways. "We don't even know if Cole is the brain or if he's just another operator like Christmas. If he's the former, we're in trouble."
Gunnar snorted and pushed his chair back. "Scared of a kid, are we?" He stood; there was venom in the grin. "If he wants to step in, I'll break his neck." Without waiting, he walked out.
Christmas watched him go. "You really going to let Gunnar do that?" he asked Ross.
Ross shrugged. "Gunnar knows what he's doing. He understands the risk—if that kid really matched Yin Yang they won't go at each other head on. And in terms of long-range shots, Gunnar's top tier."
They left the plan on the table and split up. The gravity of the mission had shifted—someone else had made a move.
Dade's meetup with Eugene Belford—The Plague—went precisely to script. Belford arrived at the café looking like a man who'd been cultivated to charm; middle-aged, easy smile, practised warmth. Dade kept his phone silent, the small camera in his chest pocket tracking every motion. His briefcase stayed closed. Now was the moment The Plague would show his cards.
"You brought me out," Belford said, flipping open a dossier and lounging back. "So—what's the play, kid?"
"You want me," Dade said flat. "Joey's leverage. You need a fall guy. If the worm gets found, who looks the most believable? Zero Cool."
Belford laughed softly. "Smart boy," he said, eyes sharpening. "So you picked up on the pattern."
"Let Joey go," Dade said, voice low. "Then I'll come with you."
Belford watched him for a beat, then nodded, cool as ever. "Done."
Outside, in the van parked down the block, Cole, Jason and Kate watched the feed. The 3-D mask printer hummed; Jason checked the facial scan coming in from Dade's rig. Kate worked the software with tight focus.
"Analysis almost done," she said.
The printer spat out the first mock-up. Jason grimaced, fishing through a box of prosthetics they'd prepared: beard stubble, hairpieces, the fine details that made a face become someone else. Cole supervised while Kate adjusted texture and voice prints.
"Sound upload—ten seconds," Kate said. Ten seconds later, Cole tested the timbre and cadence. He sounded, for all intents and purposes, like Belford.
At the café, Belford stood and walked out. A man in black helped Joey down from the car and ushered him toward the café door. Dade glanced, nodded—signal received.
"Your turn," Cole said to Kate.
She slipped out into the flow, took the seat, and when Belford arrived she moved like a shadow. Inside, Dade played his part—angry, wounded, threatening—and Belford took it all in as if he were reading a script he'd written.
"Hand him over," Dade said, pointing at Joey. "He's your bargaining chip."
Belford shrugged and agreed without protest. His eyes were on Dade the whole time—Dade's the prize. Once Joey was turned over to Kate's custody, Belford was satisfied. He left with Dade, secure in the knowledge that if anything went sideways, Joey had a tracker and a limit on time and movement.
Kate guided Joey out of the cafe and into the van. He tried to shout, but she covered his mouth. "Quiet," she hissed. "We'll explain shortly." He swallowed his surprise and complied. The van rolled off.
From a rooftop opposite Cole's building, Gunnar assembled a sniper rifle. The parts clinked in the case, deliberate and clinical. He fitted the scope and peered through the telescope at Cole's building. No movement—no sign of activity. Gunnar's face didn't change; he settled into a patient watch and waited.