The feed died mid-pulse.
Ethan froze at the workstation, static hissing in his earpiece. Then the signal cut. Something had gone wrong—badly. He reached for his phone to call Arthur when the hotel door blew inward.
Four men in tactical camouflage stormed the room, weapons raised.
Ethan didn't hesitate. He slipped on his gecko gloves, sprinted, and dove straight through the panoramic glass. Wind howled around him as he dropped into open air. Mid-fall, he drew his sidearm, fired a round skyward; the bullet punched through the frame above, dragging the line's hook through the shattered window and into a sofa.
The hook bit. The sofa tore free, slowing him for a heartbeat—just enough. Ethan slammed flat against the glass façade, gloves locking. He hung there, chest heaving.
He climbed fast, broke back through the window below, rolled across carpet, and yanked the fire alarm. Sirens screamed. People panicked. He changed his look—jacket inside out, cap down—and ghosted through the back exit.
Lei Zhan was waiting.
"As expected of the IMF's golden boy," Lei said, raising his rifle. "But you're not walking out of Shanghai."
Rounds cracked. Ethan ducked into a maintenance corridor. Lei followed, controlled bursts chewing plaster. Ethan vaulted a trolley, fired blind over his shoulder, ricochet snapping metal.
They hunted each other through the bowels of the hotel—angles, echo, adrenaline. Then Ethan vanished through a side door into the night.
⸻⸻
On the outskirts of Shanghai, an abandoned industrial block sat in silence.
Arthur and Yin Yang had already pulled John Musgrave's phone and voiceprint. Now they were baiting Owen Davian into the open. The trap was perfect.
Arthur laid out the rifle components with mechanical precision—barrel, bolt, optic, suppressor. Yin Yang locked a mag into his suppressed HK, checked the chamber, and covered the rear approach.
Headlights swept the gate. A black sedan crawled to a stop. Inside: Owen Davian and five men.
Arthur's lips thinned. "Showtime." He handed Yin Yang a compact SMG, then dialled the phone.
Owen answered, impatient. "Where the hell are you? I'm here already!"
Arthur's tone was calm, deliberate. "We meet again, Owen."
The shot broke a half-second later. A single round punched through night air—clean entry, no echo. The guard beside Davian collapsed, a hole through his forehead.
"Shit! Move!" Davian barked, dragging the others toward the structure. Two more men dropped before they reached cover—double-taps, centre-mass, no wasted rounds.
Inside, Yin Yang was already in motion. Silent, efficient, a predator in shadow. Two suppressed bursts. Two more bodies down.
By the time Davian crashed into the hall, he was alone.
Yin Yang shoved him forward, gun at his spine. Arthur stepped from cover, rifle slung low.
"Appreciate you flying all the way to Shanghai," Arthur said lightly, giving him a slap across the face. "Would've been a nightmare hunting you elsewhere."
Davian gave a short, bitter laugh. "So it was a setup all along."
"Exactly."
Headlights glowed again—military transports this time. Two vehicles rolled up, soldiers disembarking in formation. One officer approached.
"Mr. Arthur, Hu Zhiyuan—Black Hawk Commando," he said crisply. "Orders from Commander He. We're to take Owen Davian into custody."
Arthur nodded. "He's all yours. Let the Commander know—the mission's complete."
Hu Zhiyuan saluted, cuffed Davian, and signalled. Another soldier hauled a second captive from the truck—John Musgrave, wrists bound, head down. The convoy loaded both and pulled out toward the military zone.
⸻⸻
Across the city, Ethan clutched his bleeding hand as he reached the safehouse. Luther met him at the door, dragged him inside, and set him on the table.
"Jesus, Ethan. Sit still."
Luther sterilized a scalpel and dug the slug free. Ethan gritted through the burn, jaw clenched.
"You're lucky," Luther said, wrapping the wound. "Word is, both John and Owen are in Chinese military custody."
Ethan's eyes lifted. "What about Arthur?"
"No contact. My guess? He triggered this whole clusterfuck." Luther met his gaze. "No one else could move that fast."
Ethan didn't argue. "Then we're dealing with a mole—or worse, a double play."
Luther nodded grimly. "Let's file the report to Theodore. We're wheels-up tonight."
⸻⸻
IMF Headquarters — Langley, Virginia, USA.
Director Theodore slammed his desk. "That bastard Arthur took our money and walked."
He dialled.
"Arthur," the voice on the other end said calmly. "Good evening, Director."
Theodore's tone dropped to ice. "You screwed me. Davian's in custody. You were paid to help capture him."
"I did," Arthur said. "He's been captured—just not by us. The rabbit's foot is secure, and your mole problem's solved. You're welcome."
Theodore exhaled hard through his nose. There wasn't a damn thing he could prove. And if the rabbit's foot was truly in Arthur's possession, then the mission's core objective was technically complete.
"When do you return to New York?" he asked.
"Tomorrow," Arthur said. "Same warehouse you used for the Plague. You'll get your precious trinket there."
"Fine," Theodore muttered. "We'll settle this tomorrow."
The line went dead.