"The address has been sent — Adolf, Morocco," Tool said.
"Send it to Dade. Have him pull everything he can on the guy," Cole replied.
A moment later, Jason Tate walked in carrying a small reinforced device. "Built from high-pressure alloy. Even under direct impact, the Rabbit's Foot stays intact."
"What's your move?" Jason asked.
Cole glanced around the room. "Tell me — you think the CIA's got money?"
Yin Yang shrugged. "They've got plenty."
Ross gave a crooked smile. "Need my contact? I know someone inside — Mr. Church can set a number."
Cole shook his head. "No. We go straight to Director Theodore Brassel."
They filed into the control room. Dade routed the signal through layered proxies, masked Cole's voice, and opened a secure channel.
⸻⸻
IMF Headquarters — Director's Office
Three days with no trace of the Round Table unit had left Theodore Brassel drawn and irritable. Reports stacked across his desk, reprimands from Washington echoed in his head.
Then his monitor flickered. The Round Table insignia appeared, silver and black, a circular crest bisected by a blade. Before he could call for tech support, a live feed opened.
A gloved hand lifted a small vial into frame. Brassel didn't need a label. It was the Rabbit's Foot.
A disguised voice came through the speakers.
"Director Brassel, I imagine you're looking for this."
Brassel straightened. "Who am I speaking to?"
"Call me Arthur," the voice said evenly. "Let's discuss terms."
"Where's Jason Tate?" Brassel demanded.
"With us. He talked — before he stopped."
Brassel's eyes narrowed. "What do you want?"
"We're mercenaries. We want two billion dollars," Arthur replied. "That's a discount. In the right war-zone this fetches five. We're giving you the quite option."
Brassel's voice cooled. "You're blackmailing the IMF."
"Call it correction," Arthur said. "Your agency leaked it. Find your leak and we'll talk bonus terms. If not — the Middle East gets first bid at midnight."
The screen cut to black.
"Ben. Now."
The lead technician rushed in. "Director?"
"Trace that breach. Origin, route, whatever you can."
Minutes later, Ben's face drained of colour. "Sir… nothing. They wiped the path at kernel level. No trace."
"Keep this internal," Brassel ordered. Inside, suspicion twisted — he'd feared an insider leak for days, and now he knew it was true, even if he couldn't prove it.
⸻⸻
Round Table Black-Site
Cole killed the feed and exhaled. "Think they'll pay?"
Ross leaned back. "If it goes public, the U.N. will bury them in sanctions. Two billion's cheap silence."
Christmas folded his arms. "If it came from inside — and it did — then Owen Davian didn't have to dig far. He's already got someone feeding him."
Cole nodded. "As long as this weapon goes back to the CIA, Davian's fight stays with them. And John Musgrave won't make it easy for Brassel. He'll stir the pot, pull Davian's strings, and keep them both distracted."
Ross gave a short laugh. "So we get a breather while they tear each other apart."
Cole's tone settled into steel. "Exactly. A short peace — but peace all the same."
Dade's console chimed. "Found Adolf's information," he said, eyes fixed on the display.
Everyone turned toward the screen.
"Let's see it," Cole said.
To be continued…