He Chenguang's home.
Arthur, Yin Yang, and He Chenguang stepped out of the car. Inside, Yin Yang snapped into a crisp salute the instant he saw Mr. He.
"Commander. Long time no see."
"Li Jie—you're back." Mr. He's smile carried years of weight. Li Jie had been his favourite pupil; if not for the old misfortune, Li Jie would still be in uniform. They traded a few quiet, loaded pleasantries; then Yin Yang laid out the day's events.
Mr. He led Arthur and Yin Yang into the study.
"You know our family," Mr. He said, voice low. "The He line has served for generations. I hoped my son's generation would be the last to be called to war. Chenguang is the only seed left." He exhaled, a long, tired breath.
"Commander," Yin Yang said, gentle but firm, "I didn't come to force your hand—just to ask. Are you really prepared to let the line end with Chenguang?"
Mr. He nodded once. "I'll speak with the boy."
Arthur cut in. "One more matter. What we're doing here intersects your lane. Do you know the name Owen Davian?"
Mr. He's expression hardened. "Arms smuggler. We intercepted part of a shipment he pushed here. The rest polluted the market."
"He's coming to Shanghai," Arthur said. "And there's a IMF mole—John—riding shotgun on the deal."
Arthur laid out the essentials: Davian's arrival, the planned exchange, John's angle. He kept the timing and pressure points close; leverage only works if you keep some of it in your pocket.
Mr. He studied Arthur. "Li Jie tells me who you are. You came to me for cooperation—and a privilege."
"Yes," Arthur said. "We'll put Davian and John in your hands. In return, I need operational freedom here—no automatic kill-order because I'm a mercenary. Quiet clearance to run missions in the Dragon Kingdom when necessary."
"How do I know you won't screw this country?" Mr. He asked, tone even.
"You don't," Arthur said. "But you can trust Li Jie. If I cross the line, you take my head off. No debate."
Mr. He glanced to Yin Yang, weighed the risk and the man. "Accepted."
They built the plan: Mr. He would mobilize to intercept Ethan; his people would take custody of John and Davian. As for the artefact, both agreed—the rabbit's foot doesn't get to live in the world. It would be removed from play. China wasn't about to keep a live grenade on the shelf.
They left the house with the compact efficiency of men already moving to the next phase. That night, the tracker pinged: the rabbit's foot had arrived in Shanghai.
They moved.
Coordinates took them to an ageing residential block on the outskirts. Room 502, fifth floor. Yin Yang went to one knee at the lock, a thin wire kissing tumblers. Arthur stood off-axis from the jamb, weight forward, breath easy.
Click.
The door eased. Yin Yang pushed; Arthur burst in—clean angles, muzzle awareness, eyes cutting the room. John sat on the sofa, shock flipping to panic as he reached for the box.
"You've been fucking with us long enough," Arthur said. He crossed the space in a single violent beat—broke John's legs with surgical precision, pinned him, and stripped the box.
John gasped, pain flooding his face. "You—You tracked it—"
"No shit." Arthur popped the inner wall and fished out a pinhead bug—Ethan's work. He'd counted on the box's shielding; the microphone was deep enough to dodge a lazy check. The tracker wasn't standard hardware either—Dud's baby, software-bound and mated to twin self-destruct chips. Without the right tools, John never had a chance of finding it.
Arthur slid a printed card across the table. "Read. Now."
John swallowed and read, voice shaking. Arthur recorded, pressed electrode pads to John's throat, captured the voiceprint, loaded it into his throat-mike. Sixty seconds later, Arthur could throw John's timbre on command.
He palmed the recorder, then drove a short, clean strike that put John out cold. "Call Mr. He," he said to Yin Yang. "Tell him we've got the mole bagged and tagged."
Mr. He was already in motion. After their agreement, he'd alerted Lei Zhan—captain of the Black Hawk Commando, Langya Special Base—to prepare an intercept on Ethan. Sky-eye feeds had stamped Ethan's entry into Shanghai at 1600 hours; he was holed up in a city hotel.
"Old Fox, go," Mr. He ordered. Staff sergeant Hu Zhiyuan moved his unit like a razor—no leaks, no alarms.
Arthur looked once at John's limp form. The op had held: tracker traced, mole exposed, custody arranged. The rabbit's foot—centre of all this greed and death—would not survive the night as a threat.
Outside, Shanghai's neon hummed. Inside 502, the next moves stacked in Arthur's head, crisp and cold.
Only Owen Davian remained.