"Cole Shaw?"
Theodore muttered the name thoughtfully, then searched his mind and found nothing to connect it to his records. He didn't link Cole Shaw to any known file; there was no trace in the databases he trusted.
"Sir, where did the stolen money from Ellingson go?" Theodore asked, voice steady.
Cole didn't hesitate. He put the Da Vinci floppy on the table and answered plainly. "Here it is. This is my commission."
"The commission? You're a mercenary?" Theodore's interest sharpened; another identity had appeared on his desk.
"Yes, Director. Dade hired me to rescue his friend, and while I was at it I'll help clear his record with your agency." Cole's tone was matter-of-fact. "You're likely troubled by all this."
Theodore stared at the disk a long beat, then—unexpectedly—clapped once. "Cole Shaw. Your capability exceeds my expectation. I accept."
For Theodore, the politics around the stolen billions and the worm were a land mine; exposure would entangle dozens of players and spark international fallout. If the IMF could settle this quietly while neutralizing the virus and preserving plausible deniability, it would be the wiser course. Dade's file could be buried, the evidence routed, and Theodore's own problems managed. Moreover, the man across the table registered to him as dangerous—efficient, calm, and entirely opaque. Theodore wanted to know who Cole Shaw was, but he also wanted the job done.
"It would be a pleasure to work together," Cole said, and shook Theodore's hand. He checked Dade's loyalty on the side—ninety-two now, up from sixty when Dade first joined the team. The jump made Cole smile. Loyalty was currency, and it had just paid out.
"Perhaps we'll work together again. Leave me a contact number." Theodore's voice carried the casual professional tone of a man who'd ordered many impossible things before.
"As long as the price is right." Cole replied with a small smile.
The two parted; Theodore left, taking Eugene "The Plague" Belford with him.
⸻⸻
New York City — Tool's Tattoo Shop.
Gunnar's body lay on the tattoo chair. Ross and the others stood around, the kind of silence that means someone you know is suddenly gone.
Ross exhaled and pushed the grief into a hard line of regret. "I shouldn't have let him go after that target alone. That's on me."
Christmas shook his head. "No. We all misjudged the enemy. Look at these wounds—Gunnar didn't have a chance." He folded his hands, voice even. "He showed no resistance; it was surgical."
They said no more. You don't increase the grief of the living with insults about the dead.
"Tool, I leave Gunnar to you." Ross said, looking at the small group. "Gunnar is dead. The next job will be harder — I need confirmation. Who stays, who walks?"
He wasn't asking for vengeance so much as accountability. In their world death was a cost; responsible leaders answered for it.
Christmas was first to step forward. "I'm in."
"I'm in." Others echoed.
Only Yin Yang hung back.
"Yin Yang?" Ross asked flatly.
He hesitated. The math in his head was simple: five survivors, an equal share of the fee, but the price to collect it might be too steep. Unlike Christmas and the others, who had years under Ross's command, Yin Yang hadn't yet proven a long track record. Still, Ross had been kind to him; loyalty mattered.
"All right," Yin Yang said finally. "I'm in—on one condition. More pay."
They settled it. Ross smiled with something like relief. "Thanks. Now we make a plan. Cole Shaw and his team are protecting Jason Tate. That changes things."
Toll Road raised the central problem. They had a solid plan to breach the lab and get the data, but the employer hadn't only wanted the files; they'd wanted Jason Tate and his mentor. That made the mission riskier.
"We can't distract Cole directly," Ross said. "We aim for the safe room data. That's our priority. If we can't get Jason Tate, we get the files."
"When do we move?" Yin Yang asked.
"Tomorrow night," Ross decided. "I don't trust leaving it on the calendar Gunnar set. He was unpredictable; now the timing changes."
"Good." The room settled into the calm of men making plans. They had a new enemy now—Cole Shaw—and a new deadline. The hunt was on.