Riley sat forward on the hotel-room bed, the light from Marrakesh's skyline bleeding through half-closed blinds. His forearms rested on his knees, hands clasped. Cole stood opposite him, arms folded, every word measured.
"Simon," Cole said. "You were betrayed, buried, written off. Whoever pulled those strings made sure you'd never surface again. So ask yourself—if you walk into your house right now, what happens to your wife and kid when that traitor realizes you're still breathing?"
Riley's head lifted sharply. "Why?"
"Because you're proof he failed," Cole replied. "People like that don't leave witnesses. You come home, you put a target on the ones you love most."
The words landed hard. Christmas leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Yin Yang stood near the window, quiet, nodding once in agreement.
Riley said nothing, his jaw tight.
"Do you trust me?" Cole asked.
Riley hesitated, weighing him.
"I'm not asking for blind faith," Cole continued. "I command a private unit—The Round Table. I'm offering you a place in it. In exchange, we extract your family quietly and move them someplace safe. Off-grid. Untouchable."
Silence stretched. Then Riley exhaled through his nose. The logic was brutal, but it was clean.
"You get them safe," he said. "I'm in."
Cole extended his hand. "Then welcome aboard."
Their handshake was firm, soldier to soldier—two ghosts finding purpose in each other's shadow.
"Now eat something," Cole added, nodding toward the service phone.
Christmas ordered. Yin Yang grabbed beers. They ate at the small table; while they did, Cole outlined the Adolf escort, the buried base in the desert, and the gold. With Riley on board, their odds improved.
Cole stepped aside for a secure call. "Ross, it's Shaw. Quiet lift on Riley's family—London contact, deep-cover transport. Deliver to base." He hung up. "Extraction's moving."
By mid-afternoon, they were back on the road. Cole rode shotgun, Christmas drove, Yin Yang navigated. The armoured Hummer ate miles toward Rabat and Adolf's villa.
The old man waited in his chair, temper unchanged.
"We leave now," Adolf snapped.
"We leave when it's clean," Cole said flatly. "If that other crew's sniffing around, we don't give them a trail."
They pulled out again before dusk—mission clock running, one more piece still missing: a guide who knew the right road to the wrong place.
Rabat's art quarter glowed under strings of warm bulbs. Dust, spice, and the murmur of evening trade. At a small stall of carved idols, Cole found what he was looking for—a young woman with sharp eyes and a wary calm, hands moving with the competence of a local who'd learned to read travellers fast.
He lifted a hand-carved idol, tracing the etched warding symbol. "Nice work."
She studied him. "You recognize the mark?"
"Old tribal ward," Cole said. "Tied to a military outpost that dropped off maps a long time ago."
"You're well informed," she said. "Who wants to know?"
"Someone paying well for a guide," Cole replied. "Name's Shaw."
She hesitated, then: "Peach."
Cole nodded once. "Twenty francs for the idol," he said, setting the money on the table. "And a better rate if you can show me where that symbol came from."
Peach weighed the bill, then him. "Guiding strangers into the interior isn't a hobby," she said. "It's risk."
"I pay for risk," Cole said evenly. "I also keep people alive."
Before she could answer, a dry laugh cut in from the next stall. "That line's ancient, friend."
Cole turned. Jack Chen—sun-browned, relaxed, with that permanently amused glint—leaned on a display rack like he owned the quarter.
"It doesn't have to be new," Cole said, deadpan. "It just has to be true."
Jack's smile tilted. "Maybe she prefers the seasoned type."
Cole looked back to Peach. "If we both asked at the same time, who would you hear first?"
Peach's eyes flicked between them, then, almost involuntarily, settled on Cole. Jack's smile held, but something cooled behind it.
"Fine," Jack said lightly. "If you two are shopping for trouble, you'll find it faster than you think."
"We usually do," Cole said. He turned back to Peach. "Guide us. Tonight."
Peach exhaled, then nodded once. "Dusk. Bring fuel, water, cash. No lights on approach."
"Done."
They regrouped at the Hummer.
"Who is she?" Adolf asked from the rear bench, suspicious.
"The reason we won't get lost," Cole said, climbing in. "You focus on breathing."
Christmas started the engine, Yin Yang folded Peach's hand-drawn route into the dash unit. The Hummer rolled out as the last line of sun bled away.
Night swallowed the road. Peach's motorbike carved a thin line of motion ahead, a single taillight blinking and vanishing as she crested sand ridges and slid down the far side. The city fell behind; the dunes rose like frozen waves.
"Rear clean," Christmas said over the comm.
"Two o'clock—possible glint," Riley murmured from the back. "Optics."
"Cut left off the wadi," Cole said into the mic. "Take the ridge."
Peach banked. The Hummer followed. The glint died.
Ten minutes later, Peach braked and raised a hand. Moonlight silvered the sand. A faint circle of metal lay buried—geometry where there should only be wind and drift.
Adolf leaned forward, breath catching. "There. That's the site."
Cole scanned the horizon, then the old man's face. "All right," he said. "One step at a time."
He gave the signal. No speeches. No noise. Just movement.
Under the Moroccan moon, The Round Table advanced toward another ghost from another war—one that would soon wake.