"This time we're heading to Shanghai. You coming?" Cole asked, looking across the table at the others.
Christmas and Ghost both shook their heads almost in unison.
"My status isn't exactly subtle," Christmas said, leaning back in his chair. "Mercenaries entering China tend to draw a lot of attention. If I go, it'll be a damn circus."
"I've got my own mess to clean up," Ghost added quietly. "Last thing I need is to end up flagged on entry. Not worth it."
He was still tracking down the teammate who'd betrayed him—something he needed to finish personally.
Dade gave a shrug. "China's a digital minefield, man. No open networks, tight surveillance. I'd be more of a liability than a help."
Cole nodded, thinking it through. "Then Yin Yang and I will go. He can blend in better there, and I can move under a civilian cover."
Yin Yang gave a brief nod. It made sense. He'd been a mercenary long enough to have international heat but short enough that his trail back in China wasn't fully lit up. As for Jason Tate, Cole knew China's security services still had tabs on him—too many defence projects tied to his name. Sending Jason would be reckless.
Cole turned toward Ghost. "Simon, get in touch with Ross and the others. Finish what you started. Leave nothing hanging."
Ghost nodded once. "Understood."
⸻⸻
The next morning, Cole and Yin Yang boarded a flight bound for Shanghai. Cole had booked out the entire first-class cabin—privacy was worth the price tag.
"If you don't enjoy the money, what's the point of making it?" Cole said with a faint smirk, sipping his coffee as the jet climbed.
Yin Yang smiled thinly. "Spoken like a true capitalist."
They shared a brief look of nostalgia. For Yin Yang, it had been years since he'd set foot on Chinese soil. For Cole, it wasn't about heritage—it was the familiarity of terrain, a place where power moved quietly beneath the surface.
"Your family's still here, right?" Cole asked.
Yin Yang hesitated, his expression dimming. "Yeah," he said at last, though his tone carried more grief than affirmation. He didn't elaborate, and Cole didn't press.
⸻⸻
By nightfall, their plane touched down in Shanghai. At the gate, a hotel driver waited, holding a card with Mr. Shaw printed in bold gold lettering. Cole had reserved the Presidential Suite at the Mandarin Oriental—over twenty grand a night.
After a smooth ride in a Rolls-Royce Phantom, they checked in at eight sharp.
"Once people get money," Cole said, glancing at the panoramic skyline view, "they forget how to stop chasing it. But if we don't make more… how the hell do we afford this?"
Yin Yang chuckled in quiet agreement. "Fair point."
Cole crossed to his laptop, waking the screen. A GPS tracker pulsed faintly on the display. "Not here yet," he said. "Owen and his crew are still outside the border. No surprise there."
Owen Davian was a globally wanted arms dealer. If he so much as set foot on Chinese soil, he'd have half the intelligence community watching him. And John—their IMF contact—wasn't exactly invisible either.
"It'll take them a day or two to risk coming in," Cole said. "Until then, we might as well enjoy ourselves."
Yin Yang gave a rare smile. "Wouldn't mind that."
⸻⸻
The next day, the two moved through Shanghai like tourists—casual, unhurried, unseen.
"The food here still puts the rest of the world to shame," Yin Yang said as they sat at a local restaurant.
Cole nodded, slicing into a dish of spicy noodles. "There's a precision to it. Balance, heat, restraint. Shame most chefs forget that."
They ordered half the menu and ate like men with time to spare. After paying, they stepped out into the neon buzz of the street—and paused at the sound of a loud voice ahead.
"Yo! Step right up! Three shots, three hits, and you win a prize!"
It was a street stall airsoft game, the kind Cole hadn't seen in years. The vendor's voice carried through the crowd, but most passers-by ignored him.
"Haven't seen one of these since Bangkok," Yin Yang said with a grin.
"If you're feeling nostalgic, take a shot," Cole replied. "Just don't bankrupt the man."
Yin Yang smirked. "Thirty shots. Hit them all, and you owe me ten grand."
Cole scoffed. "Fuck off. I'm not betting against you."
"I'll try!" a young voice called from the side, catching both their attention.
Cole turned—and froze for a beat. The face was familiar. A lean, sharp-eyed young man stepped forward, confidence radiating from his stance.
Wait. Cole's gaze narrowed. This looks exactly like the setup from that training sequence…The one where the recruit—He Chenguang—took part in a staged street challenge that spiralled into a tactical test. He glanced toward the woman beside him, heard her call, "Chenguang!" and that confirmed it.
So this is that moment. Fan Tianlei's little experiment. Cole's lips twitched. Let's see how it plays out.
"Yin," he said quietly, "see that backpack on the table to the right? Take it. Stash it somewhere out of sight."
Yin Yang blinked. "Why?"
"Just trust me."
With a sigh, Yin Yang slipped through the distracted crowd, snagged the backpack, and disappeared around the corner. A few minutes later, he reappeared. "Dropped it in a restroom," he muttered. "You want to tell me what the hell that was about?"
"Patience," Cole said, eyes still on the unfolding scene.
He Chenguang and the stall owner—Wang Yanbing, if Cole remembered the story right—were already arguing. Then a ringtone cut through the air. Wang answered.
"Who? He Chenguang? My name's Wang Yanbing. Wrong number."
"I'm He Chenguang," the young soldier said, frowning, before taking the phone. "Hello? I'm He Chenguang."
"Chenguang," came the low voice on the other end, "there's a backpack at your three o'clock. There's a bomb inside."
Instantly, He Chenguang's posture changed—eyes scanning, muscles tense. He turned toward three o'clock.
Nothing.
Up in a nearby building, Fan Tianlei—watching through binoculars—was visibly confused. He was expecting to see a fake explosive for the training exercise. But it wasn't there.
Cole hid a grin. Looks like we just rewrote his script.
He stepped back from the crowd, letting the chaos build, and murmured to Yin Yang, "Let's move."
They slipped away into the Shanghai night—Cole's smirk fading as the mission retook its hold.
So far, the pattern's the same as the film. But this time, I'm not a passenger in it.
To be continued.