After thinking it through, Cole felt the knot ease in his chest. More commissions meant broader leverage; not everyone could pay in cash, but value had many forms. With the Round Table's reputation now solid, low-tier jobs weren't worth their time.
"This one's on you," Deck said, patting Cole's shoulder with a dry sigh. "I can't move right now. If I do, Owen will do something stupid just to spite me."
Cole held his brother's gaze. "He'll be fine. I'll handle it."
Family first. Always.And Forever.
⸻⸻
Los Angeles, USA.
Luke Hobbs carried a case file up the walk to Dominic Toretto's place. He needed help—and there were only a handful of drivers in the world who could counter Owen Shaw's crew on the road. Toretto topped that list.
Dominic was watering the flowers, steady hands, quiet focus. Since Letty's "death," he'd kept his head down. With his new girlfriend's patience, he'd crawled out of the worst of it.
"Toretto," Hobbs called, amused, "you drop a hundred mil on a house and you still garden like this?"
"These keep me steady," Dom said without looking up. "What are you here for, Hobbs? You finally come to slap cuffs on me?"
They'd ripped a vault out of Rio and split a fortune. International warrants followed. Hobbs could have dragged him in before. He didn't.
"A few days ago, a convoy moving satellite components out of Moscow got hit," Hobbs said, flat.
"I don't work winters," Dom replied.
He already knew why Hobbs was here: not to accuse, but to recruit.
"I know it wasn't you," Hobbs went on, "but I need you to help me catch who did it. Only you can run them down. You help me nail this crew, and I'll make your wanted status disappear."
Dom almost smiled—disdain and curiosity in equal parts. From small-time to international, he'd lived under warrants long enough to stop caring.
"Don't say no yet." Hobbs opened the folder and slid over photos—Letty Ortiz, alive, in motion.
Dom's hands tightened on the prints. "This… when?"
"Month ago. And this—last week." Hobbs pointed. "These were pulled off city surveillance in New York."
Dom's eyes burned at the sight of her. "The man beside her—he your target?"
Hobbs shook his head. "No. That photo's not Moscow. It's New York. The man has ties to my target. Family. Younger brother."
He'd dug since the Moscow hit—Owen Shaw's network, edges and ghosts. A younger brother surfaced in scattered intel: Cole Shaw on paper, nothing that held in the light. Enough for Hobbs to plan leverage if he needed it.
Dom was silent, jaw set. His girlfriend stepped in close, voice soft but firm. "If it were you, I'd do anything to bring you back. Go. Find her."
Dom hugged her, then left with Hobbs.
In the Charger, Dom said, "No team this time."
"Without a crew, you'll never find them, and you won't save Letty," Hobbs answered.
Dom stared out through the windshield. Beat. "All right. Looks like we're getting the band back together."
⸻⸻
The next night.
The family assembled:
Han—calm wheelman with a feel for city flow.
Gisele Yashar—clean lines, cleaner shots.
Roman Pearce—loud mouth, sharper instincts than he pretended.
Brian O'Conner—ex-FBI, cool under heat.
Tej Parker—systems, comms, and magic with a laptop.
They circled the gear racks, taking in the hardware.
"Man," Roman muttered, fingering a rifle, "last time was supposed to be the last time. Now this looks even worse."
Han smirked. " 'Last time' is what people say before the funeral."
"That's not funny. I'm not dying—I'm young. Also… you got any spare cash?" Roman asked, hopeful.
"You already burned through Rio money?" Han asked.
Roman shrugged, shameless. "I live well."
"When Dom gets in, ask him for a loan," Han said. "I'm not your bank. My money's in engines."
Dominic and Hobbs rolled in a minute later. The brief was tight, fast, focused. Photos. Routes. Targets. Owen Shaw at the centre. Letty in the margins, alive.
They started to plan.
⸻⸻
Round Table Forward Site — Sahara Desert.
Cooling fans hummed under the command screens. The sand kept secrets; the base kept the rest.
Cole called it in: "On me."
Around the table stood the hitters—Ross, Christmas, Yin Yang, Simon Riley (Ghost), Toll Road, Caesar. The spine of the Round Table's strike element, Expendables veterans interlocked with Ghost's shadowcraft.
"This time," Cole said, eyes moving from face to face, "we're all in."
Operational voice. Keep it tight. No speeches.
"Jason stays here on intel and logistics," he continued, locking the analyst's avatar to the wall display. "Single priority for him: track Owen Shaw. His safety stays under our umbrella. Anyone gets in the way, we cut them out."
There was nothing flowery in Cole's tone—only weight. The room understood.
"Clear?" he asked.
"Clear," they answered as one.
No one touches blood.Not Hobbs. Not Cipher. Not anyone.
Everyone nodded.