Just after the two sealed their agreement, Croft offered one more piece of candour.
"The client who put a bounty on you is… unusually well-hidden. I couldn't trace her even if I tried," he said evenly. "Feels like a test—she didn't raise the fee afterward."
Cole's expression tightened. If Croft couldn't trace it, that ruled out Owen Davian. Someone quieter—and patient—was probing. Whoever she was, she'd be back.
"Appreciate it," Cole said. For a Continental figure to share that at all broke custom; it counted as real goodwill.
A killer stepped up, whispered in Croft's ear, then withdrew. Croft looked back to Cole. "The IMF team downstairs? Dead. The disruptors were B-grade hitters," he said, annoyed rather than shocked. "They violated Continental rules. I dealt with them."
He added, "The safe's contents are gone. Backplate was cut before the shooting. I don't know who took it. Do you need help?"
Cole shook his head. Everything still followed plan; the real Rabbit's Foot should already be with Ethan. "When the job drops, you know how to reach me."
He handed Croft a burner contact and left with Simon.
After they were gone, a lieutenant murmured, "Is this worth it? You really think he can fix your problem?"
Croft gave a dry laugh. "Winston's people won't let him walk forever." He stared into his glass. "When Winston and I fought for the Americas seat, we pushed too far. His wife died because of me, and my children were killed by him. I lost and got exiled to Africa. If I fail this assessment, you already know what happens next."
He fell silent. For Croft, this wasn't pride—this was survival. Cole had become his last bet.
⸻⸻
Ethan and his team left the Continental and returned to the safe house. His phone buzzed—John, right on cue, requesting the hand-off. Ethan agreed: delivery once they were back stateside.
"The plan stands," Ethan said. "We head home, regroup, and move the Rabbit's Foot on our terms."
The others nodded. Luther powered up the jet, and within minutes they were in the air—heading home.
⸻⸻
Berlin — Owen Davian's Manor.
His men set the box on the desk. Owen flipped it open, breathing a little too fast. A tech took the payload, checked it, and came back with a dead-flat verdict.
"It's fake. Just a model."
Owen's smile died. He crushed the cigar in his fist. "Fuck. Useless."
"Boss," a lieutenant ventured, "maybe it's a setup. The IMF and the mercs already had the real one—they staged this to smoke us out."
Owen shook his head. "If they were baiting us, they wouldn't pick the Continental." He rubbed his eyes—he hadn't slept in days.
His phone rang. He answered. "Yeah."
"Mr. Davian," a calm voice said. "Leader of the Round Table mercenary unit."
Owen's tone went ice-cold. "You've got some fucking nerve calling me."
"You're out of time," the caller said. "Your informant is inside the IMF. I know who he is and why he wants the Rabbit's Foot. It's already on U.S. soil."
"Why the hell should I trust you?" Owen snapped.
"The IMF paid two billion to buy it back," the voice replied. "How much will you pay to beat them to it?"
"You hijack my property, sell it back to Langley, and now you want money?" Owen snarled. "You're a dead man."
"Five hundred million. Wire it, and I give you the location," the voice said, flat. "Account incoming."
"If your info's wrong," Owen hissed, "no matter where you hide, I'll find you—and I'll fucking kill you."
The line went dead. A banking string hit his phone seconds later. Owen authorized the transfer. He didn't have a better option—get a bead on the Rabbit's Foot and he could still close the Middle East sale and stop the bleeding.
A file arrived. He opened it. A cruel smile crept across his face.
"So it's you."