The next morning, Cole Shaw, Christmas, and Yin Yang rolled across the desert in two matte-black modified Hummers, engines growling through the dunes on the road to Morocco.
Christmas leaned forward from the passenger seat, running a gloved hand across the dash, grinning like a kid.
"Jesus, Cole—this thing's a fortress. Full composite armour, twin-mounted M2s… you built a tank on wheels."
Cole smirked. "You've only seen half of what it can do. The rest's classified—until you need it."
Yin Yang, driving the second Hummer behind them, came over the comms. "Remind me why we're driving instead of flying? Feels like we're crawling."
"Because a jet puts us on every radar from Langley to Berlin," Cole replied. "We're ghosts right now. Owen's still hunting, and the CIA's watching. Low and quiet wins."
The convoy tore through the golden expanse. The system-issued Hummers handled the terrain effortlessly—stabilizers compensating for the shifting sands, engines tuned for desert heat. By dusk they were two hours out from Marrakesh, the southwestern edge of Morocco glowing faintly on the horizon.
They pulled off-route to rest and eat. As Christmas unpacked a ration kit, a faint rustle came from the dunes. All three froze.
The sound came again—soft sand collapsing.
Then a hand broke through the surface.
Yin Yang drew his sidearm instantly. Cole's fingers slid toward his holster. Another hand followed, then a man's head and shoulders, dragging himself out of the desert like he'd clawed his way back from the grave.
He looked mid-thirties, tall, every inch of him torn and scarred. His lips were cracked, eyes half-open with exhaustion.
"This guy's built different," Christmas muttered. "He just dug himself out of a tomb."
Cole moved closer, weapon raised. The man collapsed face-first into the sand, gasping for breath. His voice rasped one word: "Water…"
Cole uncapped his canteen and poured a slow stream into the man's mouth. The stranger's throat moved as he swallowed, eyes fluttering shut again.
"Who are you?" Cole demanded.
No answer—just a grimace of pain.
Yin Yang looked to him. "You wanna save him or leave him?"
Cole paused. "If he crawled out here alive, he's meant to live. Load him up."
They carried the man into the back of the Hummer and sped toward Marrakesh. Near ten that night, they rolled up to a high-end hotel on the outskirts. Yin Yang slung the stranger over his shoulder and followed Cole inside.
⸻⸻
Elsewhere — Luzon, the Philippines.
On a quiet river, a black Hummer converted into an amphibious craft floated lazily. A man in board shorts sat on the deck, rod in hand, humming to himself.
Jack Chen—known worldwide as the Falcon—was a renowned adventurer and treasure hunter, a man who'd chased legends from the Congo to Cairo. He'd recently escaped a tribal mess that nearly made him a permanent sacrifice, barely getting out with a handful of priceless gems.
A fax machine beside him whirred to life. Jack glanced over, squinting at the sheet as it rolled out.
He sighed. "Here we go again."
The message bore the seal of a European Earl he'd worked with years before. The location: a private castle in the Alps. Jack tossed the fishing rod aside. "Another favour from an old friend. Figures."
⸻⸻
Marrakesh, Morocco — the next morning.
In a hotel suite, the rescued man lay unconscious on a bed while Cole, Christmas, and Yin Yang ate breakfast across the room.
A low groan cut through the silence.
The man's body tensed, hands gripping the sheets as flashes of violence tore through his mind—shouts, interrogation rooms, screams. Then he bolted upright, drenched in sweat.
Cole and the others were already moving. Cole pushed open the bedroom door—
—and the stranger's hand shot out, lightning fast, catching Cole's throat.
Before he could tighten his grip, Yin Yang intercepted, kicking the man's arm aside and countering with a flurry of strikes. The two collided hard, fists and elbows trading in brutal rhythm.
Christmas stepped forward, eyes wide. "Hell, even half-dead he's holding his own."
Cole's attention sharpened. The man's form was disciplined—efficient, military.
"Recognise the style?" Cole asked.
Christmas studied the movement. "Close-quarters combat, but hybridized—Krav Maga base with some British SAS transitions. He's trained."
Within moments, fatigue caught up to the stranger. Yin Yang slipped a sweep under his guard and sent him crashing to the floor.
Cole stepped in, kneeling beside him, pressing a hand against his throat.
"Name. Who are you?"
The man's lips moved, voice cracking. "Simon… Riley."
Then his eyes rolled back, and he fell unconscious once more.
Cole exhaled slowly. "Christ." He glanced to Christmas and Yin Yang. "We just dug up a ghost."