The IMF team entered the room. Their lead man opened the in-room safe and slid the case inside.
"Someone's watching us from outside. Something's off. We hole up here for the next two days."
"Agreed. The watchers are likely tied to that mercenary outfit. They'll try to lift the package the second we move."
"As long as we stay on Continental grounds, nothing happens. We wait until they clear out—then we go."
They murmured assent around the suite. Nobody wanted to tempt fate on a two-billion-dollar handoff.
"Right. We sit tight. Put eyes on the mercenary team. Send a few people out with decoy boxes—see what bites," the case officer said.
Heads nodded. No objections.
⸻⸻
In the adjacent room, Ethan and Declan eased the cut cylinder free again. Ethan reached through the wall and thumbed the internal release; Declan lifted a perfect replica of the Rabbit's Foot from the suitcase.
Ethan made the switch—clean, precise. He seated the real device in the backpack, slid the cylinder back into the wall, and pressed the panel flush.
"We're done here." He set the real Rabbit's Foot into the carry case. The two men ghosted out of the hotel.
⸻⸻
Berlin — the estate of Owen Davian.
Owen listened to his man's update, jaw set. He'd ignored one possibility: if the IMF stayed inside the Continental, his people would be stuck watching bricks.
Worse—he had one week left on a clock he couldn't miss.
He stepped to a secure line. If the IMF wouldn't step out, he'd pay killers to force the issue and send his own team to lift the prize in the chaos. Not under his name—never under his name. If the Continental traced it back, the blowback would be global.
Whether anyone would accept that contract… uncertain.
⸻⸻
That night.
Arthur received an invitation—top floor, private meeting.
"Could be hotel management," Ghost said.
"Maybe. Do Continentals run with one boss per branch, or one for the world?" Arthur asked, genuinely curious. In the films, the New York manager was Winston; on other continents, different hands held the reins.
"Each hotel has a manager. The true ownership sits above—quiet and very connected," Ghost said. Old SAS briefings had given him glimpses; nothing definitive.
"We're invited; it'd be rude not to go. You and I will go. Christmas and Dade stay on the room."
They dressed light, took the invitation card, and stepped into the lift. The reader blinked; the button for the top floor unlocked.
They emerged into an open-air private restaurant. At its centre, a white-haired gentleman savoured red wine. Several guards lingered at a polite distance. Two large doormen moved to intercept.
"Sir, no weapons beyond this point."
Arthur smiled, pleasant but flat. "I shouldn't say no. But I don't feel safe."
Ghost understood. A blade flashed, hands moved—two precise beats—and both doormen hit the deck, groaning. The white-haired host didn't flinch, merely watched as if evaluating a form.
Arthur and Ghost crossed to the table.
"Those two are B-grade talents," the old man said mildly. "Not weak, but not on your level. The Round Table lives up to its new reputation."
Arthur sat, unruffled. With the Continental's reach, his cover here wouldn't last more than a minute.
"How should I address you?" he asked, pouring himself a measured glass.
"Jacob Croft but people call me Croft," the man said. "Cole Shaw, one question: why hide for years and then step into the light now?"
According to the files, Cole Shaw's life pre-graduation was ordinary. Even early mercenary work showed little of note. Then the cruise-ship pirates—everything changed. The Rabbit's Foot. Recruiting the Expendables. Founding the Round Table. The desert gold. Now, open cooperation with the IMF.
It had his full attention.
"Mr. Croft, that isn't the question that brought us upstairs," Arthur replied evenly. "We don't touch your business. You don't touch ours. Why ask to meet me?"
Croft smiled. "Do you know how many contracts we accepted on your life?"
Arthur's eyes narrowed a fraction. "Assassinations? On me?"
"After the Round Table formed, we took a commission. Target: you. We dispatched nearly a hundred killers. No one could find you." He lifted his glass. "The contract expired."
For the Continental, whose information grid rivalled government agencies, failure to locate a target—any target—was rare. Since the Round Table's emergence, Shaw had vanished between operations. He surfaced with the gold convoy. Then—not a trace. The deadline lapsed. First mission of its kind to die on the vine.
So when Shaw checked into their house, Croft invited him up. He wanted to see the cut of the man himself. Ghost's execution at the door told him enough: A-plus, at minimum. And Ghost was only a lieutenant. That recalibrated his estimate of Arthur's ceiling.
"The Continental and the High Table interface with… everyone,"Croft continued. "Ministers, moguls, syndicates, PMC commanders, private operators. A web of leverage. Some things can never be done in a real name."
He set the glass down, eyes steady.
"And now you're in the web, Mr. Shaw."