The elevator dropped.
At the negative level, the doors opened onto a deep, still blue sea, as if they'd descended into a submerged courtyard. Water surrounded them on all sides. For a second everyone simply stared.
Only Cole Shaw stayed composed, eyes moving past the spectacle to the layout.
The lift continued to the lowest floor. This level held living quarters, a training zone, and a control room. When the group stepped out, they found an armory: racks of weapons, heavy calibers, and test rigs. A console sat against one wall, its screen dark.
"Plundered from which base?" Caesar grinned, swinging a light machine gun off the rack.
The console pinged. A blue holographic burst shot up. Targets painted the room; projected militants raised rifles and opened fire. The system delivered a non-lethal jolt to Caesar—a training shock that dumped him to the floor with a stunned, "Arrgh!"
"Training failed!" the rig announced.
Laughter rippled, then the scenario stepped up. The screen projected waves of digital enemies. Cole grabbed an AK from the rack and worked the phantoms; after thirty seconds the system tallied his score: sixty-seven simulated kills.
"This is a simulated range—reaction drills, marksmanship, situational training," Cole said, returning the AK. "Holographic. Non-lethal. Solid practice."
Kate and Dade tried and washed out, laughing; Christmas stepped in and was eliminated in twenty seconds. "It speeds up," he swore, annoyed by his score.
"Plenty of time to train," Cole said. "Now I'll show you your rooms."
He guided everyone through the residential block and then to the control room. Dade's eyes lit when he slid into the main seat.
"Don't touch anything without my say-so," Cole warned, then snapped his fingers—bringing the boards alive. Racks of electronics woke with a hum.
"This has satellite tracking?" Dade breathed, hands moving over the displays. "We're missing databases—but give me three days and I'll pull portrait analysis from public and private sources. We'll import everything we need."
Kate joined him, the two quietly mapping feeds the black-site could ingest.
"Jason," Cole said to Jason Tate, "I need a containment cradle for the Rabbit's Foot. Build a mount that isolates it even under shock."
"No problem. Three days," Jason answered. He'd already clocked the instruments and materials on hand.
Cole nodded. The site had water, food, and power stockpiled well beyond what they'd need. They could sit tight here for months.
For three days, the team settled in and used the time: training, cataloging gear, building tools. The black-site was safe—hidden; no one outside could locate it by normal means. Dade and Kate kept feeding data into the servers.
At noon on the third day, during lunch, Tool's phone buzzed. He checked the number—his dark-network broker.
"Yeah?"
"We've got a client for the Round Table," the man said. "Wants an in-person meet in Morocco. Commission is thirty million dollars."
Tool's eyes narrowed. "That's a big job. Send the address. We'll consider."
He hung up and told the table, "Thirty million. Employer wants a face-to-face. Personal meet, Morocco."
Cole sat forward. "Insisting on in-person is unusual. Could be bait—IMF, Owen Davian, or someone else."
Tool shrugged. "The dark web's vetting won't post junk, but it isn't perfect. Be careful."
A moment later the broker's address landed on Tool's screen. Dade and Kate went back to feeding databases; Jason returned to the lab to finish the cradle. The rest of the team prepped: aircraft checks, weapons, air filters, comms. The black-site had given them space to breathe—but the world wouldn't wait.