"Simon Riley."
Hearing the name, Cole felt a flicker of recognition he couldn't place. Not from a film he remembered—nothing he could pin down.
"You know him?" he asked.
Christmas and Yin Yang both shook their heads.
"We'll ask him again when he's conscious. For now—Morocco."
Yin Yang hoisted the unconscious man and the three of them headed out, loading him into the Hummer and driving for Rabat.
That afternoon they rolled up to a modest manor at the address from the dark web—trimmed garden, a few servants, dogs roaming the grounds. In the shade, an old man in a wheelchair toyed with a parrot.
Adolf.
Cole and Christmas stepped out; Yin Yang stayed with Simon in the car. Cole crossed the garden and sat opposite the old man.
"Are you with the Round Table?" Adolf asked, narrowing his eyes at Cole's age.
"We are," Cole said evenly. "What's the job?"
"Push me inside," Adolf ordered.
Cole didn't move.
Adolf's mouth tightened. "I said—push me inside. Didn't you hear me?"
Cole rose, rolled the chair toward the house, and nodded for Christmas to shut the door.
The latch clicked. Cole kicked the wheelchair hard—Adolf toppled, crashing to the floor.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Adolf snapped, scrambling for the chair.
Cole levelled a pistol at his chest. "Mr. Adolf, I don't take orders barked at me. You're not our employer until we accept the job. If you think you can mouth off and walk away, test me. Or save the pride and the blood."
Adolf's jaw worked. He dragged the chair close and levered himself back up, breathing hard. "Is this how you treat an employer?"
"We haven't accepted your commission," Cole said. "Which means you're not our employer. And even if you were, keep the tone in check."
Cole pinched Adolf's mouth lightly between thumb and forefinger, just enough to make the point. "Has anyone ever told you your mouth is a problem?"
Adolf glared but swallowed it. He didn't want to die before he reached the place in his head—the place where his comrades had fallen.
He snorted. "I want protection to a location. When we get there, I'll pay thirty million dollars."
Cole and Christmas exchanged the same thin smile.
"Mr. Adolf," Cole said, "are you planning to take two hundred and forty tons of gold to your grave?"
Adolf's eyes blew wide. "How… how do you know that? Who are you?"
"You don't need the how," Cole said. "You need to decide whether thirty million on a haul worth billions is your final number. And you need to understand why I didn't kill you when I learned it."
Adolf said nothing. He knew exactly why: only he knew the site. The officials who'd once handled him assumed he was long dead. Otherwise, the gold would be gone already.
"How much do you want?" he asked at last.
"I'm fair," Cole said. "You've got one foot in the grave. I'll give you one percent as a burial gift. Deal?"
Silently, Cole pinged the system.
System, if an employer breaks faith mid-operation or acts against the team, how is the mission settled?
Ding — If the employer betrays or acts detrimentally during the mission, rewards are distributed based on completion. Mercenaries retain the right to resist.
Cole's mouth ticked: exactly what he needed.
"Are you kidding me?" Adolf hissed. "I'm the only one who knows the location."
"To be honest," Cole said, "one percent might be generous. I know the site is in the desert. Do you have the key to open the door?"
"I know where the key is," Adolf said through his teeth. "We're partners, technically."
"You lead the way," Cole replied. "We handle everything else. And remember—there are plenty of people who want this gold. What exactly do you think you can offer besides directions?"
Adolf went silent, the regret curdling in his eyes. He'd brought the Round Table into this. Now he would have to see it through—and hope he could turn the tables at the end.
"Good," Cole said.
Ding — Commissioned task generating…