"Ding—mission generated."
"Escort Adolf to the military base. Reward: 1,000 skill points; Delta-Six acceleration rig blueprints."
Cole skimmed the prompt. "A thousand points? That's pathetic," he muttered, unimpressed. He frowned—then paused when he saw the second reward. Delta-Six acceleration rig schematics.
"When do we leave?" he asked.
A high-tech exosuit design from G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra. Lightweight, powered, capable of amplifying speed, strength, and reflexes. That, at least, caught his interest.
"Figures," Cole muttered. "Adolf finally pays off."
"When do we move?" he asked.
"Tomorrow," Adolf replied. "And understand—another mercenary team already knows. I nearly hired them first, but their reputation was foul. Looks like I dodged wolves and found tigers instead."
Cole let the insult slide. "Then we'll be gone by morning."
There was no reason to linger. He and Christmas could use the time to confirm the count's key hadn't changed hands. They stepped out of the manor and crossed to the waiting Hummer.
Inside, tension hung heavy. Yin Yang and the rescued man—Simon Riley—faced off across the cabin, blade against pistol.
Cole raised a hand. "That how you thank the people who dug you out? "His tone was calm but edged. Riley blinked once, realization dawning. After a long beat, he lowered the pistol and handed it to Cole.
"Let's start again," Cole said. "Cole Shaw. Yin Yang. Christmas. Mercenaries."
"Simon Riley," the man said, voice rough. "Special Forces."
Christmas tilted his head. "Which unit?"
Riley hesitated, then said quietly, "SAS."
Christmas's grin cracked wide. "No shit. I'm ex-Recon—didn't think I'd meet another from the Regiment."
The SAS: the sharpest blade in the British arsenal. Anyone who wore that badge was cut from steel.
"You from one of the Knife Companies?" Christmas asked.
Riley's gaze drifted. He didn't answer.
Cole cut in. "Drive. Hotel first. We'll talk there."
Yin Yang turned the key, and the Hummer growled out into the Marrakech traffic.
They checked into the city's largest hotel, took adjoining suites, and locked the doors behind them.
The air settled. Riley sat, eyes hollow but clear now.
"We were betrayed," he said.
The words dropped like rounds into silence. Cole, Christmas, and Yin Yang exchanged a look—each understanding more than Riley said aloud.
Betrayed. Buried alive. Crawled his way out. That story wrote itself in the scars along his knuckles.
Cole's mind clicked. Simon Riley. Not from any file he'd read—something older, from a world of pixels and commentary clips. "Ghost." The skull-masked SAS operative from Modern Warfare. Three betrayals.
Captured and brainwashed but unbroken.
Family slaughtered, the blame pinned on him.
Finally burned alive by the commander he trusted.
Different universe—but the same man sat breathing in front of him.
Cole leaned forward. "Simon, what now?"
"I'm going back to the UK," Riley said. "My wife and child—I need to see them."
Cole shook his head. "Not yet. If someone burned your team, showing your face at home puts a target on theirs. Let us work quietly first. Verify who sold you out—and who's watching your house."
Riley's jaw tightened. "I don't know who to trust."
"Then borrow ours," Cole said simply. "Rest. We roll at first light for Adolf's rendezvous."
Outside, the Marrakech night hummed with traffic and distant prayer.
Inside, a new blade lay sheathed on the hotel bed—breathing, scarred, half-alive, half-dead, waiting for a cause.