Inside Adolf's manor, the air hung thick with unease. Seeing Cole Shaw and his crew return without a scratch made Adolf's stomach twist. The mercenaries he'd hired were worthless — they couldn't even handle a handful of men.
"Mr. Adolf, let's go."
Cole opened the Hummer's door for him. Adolf scowled, eyeing the tall vehicle. His wheelchair made climbing aboard impossible, yet no one moved to help.
Peach, pity in her eyes, started to get out to assist, but Cole stopped her with a look.
Adolf's expression darkened. He wheeled himself closer, tried to lift his body up — and fell hard into the seat.
"Mr. Adolf," Cole said dryly, "why didn't you ask for help if your legs don't work? We do respect our elders… sometimes."
He gave a thin, mocking smile, hoisted Adolf by the arm, and shoved him into the back seat. The folded wheelchair followed, tossed roughly behind him.
As long as Adolf stayed alive until they reached the base, Cole had time to humiliate him properly.
The convoy rolled toward the desert.
⸻⸻
Far away in the United Kingdom, after receiving Cole's coded order, Ross moved quietly toward Simon Riley's listed home address.
Even before reaching the neighbourhood, something felt off. He drove past casually, pretending to be just another car on the street, and kept going.
By nightfall, Ross had returned — this time to the rooftop of a building across from Simon's house. He'd scouted the area earlier that afternoon and noted something strange: the house directly opposite Simon's was supposed to be vacant. The doors were chained, the garden overgrown — yet faint silhouettes shifted behind the curtained windows.
He was certain now: someone was watching Simon's family.
Ross adjusted his binoculars. Through the scope he saw faint light, the unmistakable glint of movement inside. At least four, maybe five people.
To avoid alerting them, he slipped back down from the rooftop, circled through the alley, and approached the property silently.
He screwed a silencer onto his pistol and climbed the drainpipe to the second-floor ledge.
Inside, two men's voices murmured near a window.
"Why are we even still here? Simon's dead."
"Who knows? The boss doesn't buy that he's dead — says a man like Simon doesn't stay buried."
Both laughed, half-bored, not realizing death stood behind their door.
Ross crept up the stairs — quick, silent precision. A flash of his blade opened one man's throat; before the second could shout, Ross clamped a gloved hand over his mouth and drove the knife home again.
Neither made a sound.
He continued downstairs. Two more sat drinking in the living room, pistols on the table.
"Who the hell are—"
BANG—BANG—BANG!
Three silenced shots. Both dropped before finishing the sentence.
Ross's marksmanship was surgical; ambushes like this were his art.
When the house fell silent, he crossed the street and picked the lock on Simon Riley's door.
Inside, Simon's wife sat up in the living room watching TV.
"Who's there?" she called, snatching a fruit knife from the table.
Ross raised one hand, the other holding his phone. "Easy. I'm a friend of Simon's. He sent me — I'm here to get you out."
He tapped the phone screen, opening a live call. Simon's face appeared.
Tears welled instantly in her eyes.
"Lisa…" Simon's voice cracked through the connection.
For a few seconds they could only stare at each other, emotion raw and silent. Then she nodded, waking their sleeping daughter.
Within minutes, Ross had them both out and on the move.
⸻⸻
In the desert, Simon ended the call and handed the phone back to Cole. The hardened soldier's eyes were wet.
"Thank you, Cole," he said quietly.
He'd heard Ross's report — a surveillance team had been stationed right across from his home. Without Cole's warning, he would've gone back himself, leading his wife and child to their deaths.
"I told you," Cole said evenly. "Go home now, and you sign their death warrants. But it won't be long before they realize you're still alive."
He meant it. Once the bodies in that surveillance house were found, the enemy would know the truth — Simon Riley had returned from the grave.
Simon nodded. He understood. The only way to be free of their pursuit was to kill every last one of them — and become something else entirely.
"From now on," he said, slipping the skull mask over his face, "I'll be the ghost in the system."
A digital tone echoed.
Ding — S-class Special Forces operative recruited. Material Store unlocked.
Ding — Material Store active. Please review available inventory.
Cole opened the new interface projected by his system. Rows of rare resources scrolled before him — metals, composites, and high-grade alloys from across the world.
The sight made him grin. This update couldn't have come at a better time.
He needed exotic materials to complete the Delta-Six Acceleration Rig. Now he could source them directly — though not for free. The rarer the material, the higher the cost.
One entry caught his eye: Adamantium — the same near-indestructible metal fused into Wolverine's skeleton. The listed price: $100,000 per gram.
If he wanted to forge an entire Delta-Six frame from it, the cost would be astronomical.
Cole leaned back with a low chuckle. "Guess I'm poor again."
Even with two hundred and forty tons of gold on the horizon, he'd need more than luck to fund that.
After settling Simon's affairs, Cole and the team resumed course. According to their coordinates, they'd reach the Desert Inn within the hour.