At Tool's tattoo shop, the familiar burn of ink and antiseptic hung thick. The Expendables had gathered—Ross, Christmas, Yin Yang, Gunnar Jensen, Toll Road, and Hale Caesar—ringed around Tool's workbench, the needle still humming beside him.
Tool listened as Ross finished describing what they'd found on the freighter. His cigar fell straight from his mouth.
"Ross, you shittin' me? That kid?" Tool stared, incredulous. In his head, Cole Shaw was just a young gun with potential, not someone who could cut through thirty armed pirates alone.
Ross's face stayed hard. "You know me, Tool—I don't exaggerate. Hostages say it was one man. The kid who came to you yesterday for intel."
Tool drew a slow breath, shook his head. "Didn't think the boy was that level. Guess I misjudged."
Gunnar's jaw flexed. "You know who that bastard is, Tool? He jacked our contract, cost us ten million, and Ross decked me for complaining. I just wanna talk."
Tool glared, voice low and venomous. "Even if I did know, I wouldn't tell you. We keep client identities sealed. That's code."
Ross cut across before Gunnar could push it. "Enough. Tool, got any paying work? We need something fast."
Tool hesitated, then nodded. "There's one job. Big payout."
"Tricky?" Ross asked.
"Not exactly," Tool said, lighting another cigar. "You'd be hitting a college lab—lift some experimental material, grab the scientist and a student, hand them over. Reward's ten million."
Ross's brow furrowed. "What's the angle?"
Tool exhaled smoke. "You know the rules, brother. Don't ask why, just whether."
"Ten million," Gunnar repeated, grin widening. "That's more like it. When do we start?"
Ross studied him for a beat, then nodded. "They came to you because they trust us, right?"
"Damn right." Tool passed him a dossier. "Target's Hiserland College, private, U.S.-based. Contracts with the military. Two extraction targets: Professor Rice and a student—Jason Tate. Plus whatever's in that lab."
Ross scanned the photos. "Tomorrow. Christmas, Yin Yang—you're with me. We blend with the crowd."
They agreed without question.
The next day, banners fluttered over Hiserland College: 60th Anniversary Celebration.Cole Shaw parked his car at the gate, flashed his old student ID, and the guard waved him through.
Campus lawns were alive with music and alumni chatter. Cole called Jason Tate; the man arrived eight minutes later, tall, built like a rugby player, eyes bright with exhaustion.
"Long time, brother," Jason said, crushing him in a hug. "Year already! You're thicker through the shoulders now. Come on—the field show's starting. Quality's insane." His grin was pure mischief.
Cole rolled his eyes. "You're incorrigible."
Jason laughed. "Man, I've been buried in the lab for twelve straight months. Finally got a result; now I'm celebrating. You'd do the same."
They cut through the crowd toward the open field. A small stage had been set up, and several women were already dancing to pounding pop bass while groups of guys whistled and cheered.
Cole had to admit—the view wasn't bad.
"Dade! Dade, wait up!" a voice called nearby.
Cole turned. Two young men moved through the crowd. The one in front ignored the shouting; the other jogged to catch up. The name clicked like a round in a chamber.
Dade Murphy.
Cole's memory flipped through decades of film knowledge—the 1995 movie Hackers. Dade had been the prodigy who, at eleven, hacked Wall Street, nearly collapsing the market. He'd stolen FBI files and got banned from computers until adulthood. When the ban lifted, he'd returned to the net like a ghost—switching TV station feeds, showing off to the underground. His nemesis, Eugene Belford, alias The Plague, was a disgraced former hacker now moonlighting as a corporate security exec and cyber-thief, embedding worms to skim micro-transactions into shell accounts. Both men were legendary in hacker lore.
Cole remembered last night's hijacked TV broadcast and the mysterious ten-dollar bank transfer. The connection formed instantly. The channel hack was Dade showing off. The micro-transfer—that was the Plague.
He almost smiled. Perfect. Every merc team needed a digital ghost—someone to crack networks, erase traces, hijack comms. Dade and the Plague were the archetypes.
He tapped Jason's shoulder. "Give me a minute. Go enjoy the show."
Jason grinned. "Already am."
Cole stepped away, eyes following Dade into the crowd. Another recruit just walked out of fiction and into his world.