The world outside the broken window was a vertical nightmare of glass and gravity, but inside the suite, time had slowed to a crawl for Evan Cross. He didn't think; he simply reacted, his 8-point Constitution turning his body into a coiled spring of hyper-efficient motion.
As Ethan's fingers lost their purchase on the polished floor, Evan darted past the frozen forms of Jane and Brandt. He lunged, his body low to the ground, and shot his hands out like twin striking cobras. His fingers clamped around Ethan's ankle in an iron grip.
For a split second, the laws of physics tried to drag both men into the abyss. Evan felt the massive downward jerk of Ethan's weight, a force that would have snapped the shoulder of a lesser man. But Evan's upgraded physiology didn't buckle. He anchored his heels into the heavy mahogany floorboards, his muscles corded like steel cables. With a guttural grunt, he whipped his arms back, using his entire core to yank Ethan out of the sky and back into the safety of the room.
Ethan hit the carpet with a heavy thud, gasping for air, his lungs burning from the thin, high-altitude oxygen. Evan stood over him, his black suit remarkably unruffled despite the life-or-death struggle. He reached down, straightened his collar, and offered Ethan a brief, sharp smile. No words were needed. In the world of the IMF, "thank you" was usually delivered in the form of not dying.
The door to the suite swung open, and Benji swaggered in, looking entirely too pleased with himself. He was holding a small, glowing device—the room-number modifier.
"Tricky little bit of coding, that," Benji chirped, oblivious to the near-catastrophe. "But I nailed it. The elevators are looped, the room numbers are swapped, and the hotel thinks it's Tuesday in 1994. I—"
He stopped mid-sentence, finally registering the shattered glass, the howling wind, and the fact that Ethan was lying on the floor looking like he'd been run over by a train. Benji's smile vanished. "Uh... what happened?"
No one answered. Evan simply shook his head. He didn't have the patience for a debrief. "The lens might feel a bit like a grain of sand on your eye, Will," Evan said, turning to Brandt. "But it beams the image directly to the printer in the case. You ready?"
Jane took out a specialized, multi-purpose contact lens—a miracle of nano-engineering—and carefully fitted it into Brandt's eye.
Brandt blinked, his vision momentarily flickering. "One eye's blind, but the HUD is clear. It's manageable."
"Blink twice to trigger the shutter," Jane instructed, holding up a complex sheet of alphanumeric codes.
Brandt blinked. A soft chirp echoed from the briefcase on the table. A second later, a high-speed thermal printer hissed, producing a sheet that was a molecularly perfect copy of the launch codes.
Benji handed Ethan a modified smartphone and a stack of paper. "We've dusted the pages with a trace isotope. Even if the briefcase is swapped or the codes are hidden, you can track the radiation signature."
"Range?" Ethan asked, his voice returning to its usual gravelly authority.
"Under a kilometer," Benji warned. "So don't let Wistrom out of your sight. If he hits the street, he's a needle in a desert."
Evan walked over to the bank of monitors, his brow furrowing as he zoomed in on the hotel lobby. "He's here. But he's not alone."
The screen showed Marius Wistrom walking through the gold-leafed lobby, but he was accompanied by a lean, middle-aged man with the weary eyes of a career academic.
"Brandt, who's the extra?" Evan asked, gesturing to the screen.
Brandt's fingers paused on his tie. His face went pale. "Leonid Lisenko. Cryptographer. After the Cold War, he was the primary architect who redesigned the Russian Federation's nuclear-security protocols."
"He's the authenticator," Jane realized, her voice dropping. "He's here to make sure the codes aren't fakes."
"The second he looks at a forged set, the deal is dead and we're burned," Brandt said, turning to Ethan. "The plan is officially shot."
The camera showed Wistrom and Lisenko stepping into the elevator. The clock was screaming.
"Benji, stall the elevator. Give us sixty seconds," Evan commanded, handing the laptop over. He turned to Ethan. "We change the play. Now."
Ethan was pacing, his mind a blur of tactical permutations. "Benji, how long to recode the printer for a live bypass?"
"Seconds—but why?"
"We make a real copy of the codes," Ethan decided.
"No way," Brandt shot back. "We give them the real codes, and Hendricks wins. We can't risk it."
"I'm in," Evan said, his voice cutting through the dissent. He snatched the briefcase off the table and slammed it in front of Benji. He looked Brandt dead in the eye. "Bottom line, Will: Hendricks is the target. We give him fakes today, and a man with his resources just tries again tomorrow. He'll go underground. We'll never find him."
"But if we give him the real codes—"
"Then he thinks he's won," Evan finished. "He lets his guard down. He leads us to the terminal. And I have the final say on the Charter, Brandt—objection overruled. Benji, print the live set."
Beep—
A long, mournful tone cut through the room. They all turned to the 3D mask printer. A red warning light was pulsing. A gear had jammed; the liquid silicone was cooling into a useless, distorted lump.
"No masks," Ethan said, the weight of the situation settling on his shoulders. "We're going in clean."
The original plan had been shredded by a series of mechanical failures and unexpected variables. Evan surveyed the wreckage of their strategy and picked the only path left.
"New play," Evan announced. "Ethan, you go in as Jane's bodyguard. You stay in the suite with Wistrom to keep tabs on the isotope. Jane, you're the lead. Keep him distracted."
"And Moreau?" Jane asked.
"Brandt and I will handle her," Evan said, his voice cold. "Benji, you're room-service backup. You're the bridge between the two floors."
Jane stared at Evan, her concern visible. "Evan, you can't carry a weapon into Moreau's suite. Her guards will toss you the second you walk in. If she recognizes you as a CIA asset—"
"Who says she's ever seen me?" Evan lifted a brow, utterly unfazed. "I'm a ghost, remember? And even if it goes south... you've seen what I can do with my bare hands."
"Screw it," Brandt muttered, adjusting his glasses. "We're out of choices. Let's move."
Room 118G. One floor down.
Evan knocked on the door. He had discarded his overcoat, appearing now in a razor-sharp black suit with the top button of his shirt undone—the look of a high-end mercenary who was too comfortable to be a cop.
The door swung open to reveal a wall of muscle—a Russian "gorilla" in a cheap suit with a clear bulge under his arm. Evan didn't wait for an invitation; he stepped inside, Brandt trailing behind him like a nervous accountant.
Inside the suite, Sabine Moreau stood by a dining table. She was breathtaking and terrifying in equal measure. Her long blonde hair fell over her shoulders, and her porcelain skin contrasted sharply with her black V-neck dress. She looked like an angel of death.
What a waste, Evan thought. She'd be a hell of a date if she didn't enjoy killing people so much.
Three more guards closed in around them, their hands hovering near their jackets.
"Which of you is Wistrom?" Moreau asked, her voice a silk-wrapped blade.
Upstairs, Jane heard the prompt through her earpiece and leaned into the microphone hidden in the decoy suite. "The codes. Let's see them."
Evan, sitting opposite Moreau, leaned back with studied indifference. He drummed his fingers on his knee, his Lv.4 Etiquette skills allowing him to project an aura of bored, superior power. "Where are the diamonds, Sabine?"
"Confirm the codes, and my people deliver the payment," Moreau sneered.
She signaled her man. A folder was tossed onto the table. Brandt took it, his hands shaking slightly—part of the act, part of the reality—as he began using the contact-lens camera to photograph the pages.
Meanwhile, upstairs, the real Wistrom was growing impatient.
Knock, knock.
Benji wheeled in a room-service cart, his uniform crisp. With the practiced hand of a magician, he laid out pastries while palming the bag of diamonds. He swapped the real gems for the fakes in the cart's hidden compartment and slipped back out.
"All good," Benji whispered into the comms.
Downstairs, Brandt finished the last page and gave Evan a sharp nod. The live copy was complete. Evan picked up the room phone, tipped off Benji, and a moment later, a guard brought a "complimentary" tea tray to Moreau.
Inside the tea tray was the payment.
The deal was done. Upstairs, Wistrom took the "codes" and left with Lisenko without a second glance.
"Benji, stall Wistrom," Ethan's voice crackled. "I need an elevator."
Suddenly, the air in the lower suite changed. Moreau reached into the velvet bag of diamonds, letting the stones sparkle under the chandelier. She smiled—a cold, beautiful expression. She handed the folder back to Brandt and turned to leave.
Then, she froze.
She turned back, her blue eyes locking onto Brandt's left eye. The contact lens was malfunctioning, the HUD glowing faintly through his iris in the dim light of the suite.
"Kill them!" she barked in French.
Brandt went rigid. The guards reached for their guns.
Evan didn't wait. He lashed out, his foot connecting with the heavy oak coffee table. With his 8-point Constitution, the table became a missile. It smashed into the first guard's knees with a sickening crunch. The man screamed and collapsed.
Evan ducked as the second guard drew his weapon. He snatched a heavy ceramic potted plant from a pedestal and whipped it across the man's temple. The ceramic shattered, and the guard dropped like a sack of grain.
"Will! Get the codes and move!" Evan shouted, already diving for the third man.
The room exploded into a symphony of violence, 130 stories above the desert.
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