For the next three days, everything remained quiet.
Cole Shaw and his team, guided by Peach, finally reached the tribal outskirts buried deep in the desert.
With Peach leading, they avoided the same deadly missteps that had claimed others before them—including Jack Chen's expedition.
⸻⸻
They located the hidden entrance to the underground passage before dusk.
Six of them descended into the darkness, their boots crunching over sand and bone. Dozens of skeletons lay scattered along the tunnel floor—mute testaments to greed and betrayal.
Adolf's voice broke the silence.
"When Hans killed my comrade and I realised he'd poisoned me, I tried to escape," he said, his tone almost detached. "He caught me. Broke my leg. In the end, I used the knife I'd pulled from his body and killed him."
He retrieved a rust-stained blade wedged in a corpse's ribs and gave a hollow laugh. "All those years serving my ancestral line… only to be discarded like this. Pathetic."
Cole didn't respond. He'd heard enough. He yanked the necklace from the skeleton's throat—its metal tag etched with numbers—and moved on.
The group advanced to the inner chamber. When Cole started the generator, the entire base flickered to life—rows of ancient lights buzzing overhead.
At the end of the corridor stood a reinforced vault door, its surface etched with German markings.
Cole studied the necklace—three digits: 698.
"Arthur," Christmas said, pushing Adolf's wheelchair forward, "maybe let him open it. Just in case."
Adolf's face drained of colour. "You can't do this. I'm your employer—you're under contract!"
Cole's smirk was ice-cold. "Our contract was to deliver you here alive. We've done that."
He crouched in front of him. "You broke mercenary code when you tried to have us killed. Now you'll make yourself useful."
Adolf's breathing hitched. "The code's 916," he blurted. "It's Hans's wife's birthday. It's in his diary—he used it for everything."
Cole's expression didn't change. "Then prove it."
He shoved the wheelchair toward the door. "You open it."
Inside, the system tone pulsed softly in Cole's mind—clinical and indifferent.
System: Mission status — Objective delivered. Retaliation parameters authorised.
Adolf steadied himself, realising he had no escape. He gripped the key, turned the lock, and started inputting 916.
In his mind, another plan formed: once the vault opened, he'd seal the blast doors and trigger the base's self-destruct. If he couldn't have the gold, no one would.
Behind him, Cole quietly drew Peach aside, resting a hand on her shoulder.
"Is that code really right?" she whispered.
"You'll see soon enough," he murmured. "Just stay behind me."
Adolf twisted the final digit.
The instant the last wheel clicked into place—
Twin sentry turrets dropped from the ceiling and opened fire.
The confined corridor erupted with muzzle flashes. Adolf screamed once before being torn apart, bullets chewing through flesh and steel. When the guns fell silent, smoke filled the chamber, the smell of burnt oil and blood hanging thick in the air.
Peach trembled, face buried against Cole's chest.
When she dared to look again, Adolf's body was shredded, the wheelchair twisted beneath him.
Cole holstered his weapon, unbothered. "That's one problem solved. His share goes to us. Five percent each when the gold's divided."
No one argued.
He'd found the key, discovered the coordinates, and forced the code. The kill was earned. Even Yin Yang nodded—five percent of this treasure meant tens of millions apiece.
"Following you was the right call," Yin Yang said with a grin.
Cole keyed in the real code—698. The vault door released with a hiss, metal gears grinding open. Inside, an elevator waited, its light flickering like something long dormant.
They descended into the subterranean vault.
The doors slid open to reveal stacked crates stretching wall to wall. Cole pried one open—inside, hundreds of gold bars gleamed in the dim light.
Christmas whistled low. "Jesus… that's a lot of history sitting in one room."
"History," Cole replied, pulling back a heavy tarp, "isn't done yet."
As the canvas fell away, blinding gold light filled the chamber. Piles of ingots and nuggets towered before them—enough to bankrupt nations.
Yin Yang's eyes lit up. "We're rich. Bloody rich."
"Not yet," Cole said. "First we move it." He glanced at the hangar door and the rusted aircraft beyond. "The base's transport can't fly—no runway clearance. We'll need Ross and the others."
Calculations ran in his head. The Y-20's max payload—66 tons. Total weight here—roughly 240. Four trips minimum.
He pulled his phone, patched through to Ross.
"Arthur here. Coordinates inbound. Bring the bird—fast."
Hours later, engines thundered overhead. Ross and Caesar piloted the Y-20 low across the dunes, touching down on the cracked runway near the base.
The moment they landed, tribal gunfire erupted from the ridges. Caesar responded with disciplined bursts, suppressing the attackers with mechanical precision while Ross off-loaded the cargo ramps.
They worked nonstop from morning until the next night—loading, securing, lifting off, and returning in cycles.
By the time the final crate was hauled aboard, the desert was silent again, bodies cooling in the sand.
Cole watched the last plane ascend into the dusk, its engines fading into the horizon.
Then he and the others climbed into their convoy and began the long drive back to base.