Day thirty-four: Fox could now walk a full lap around the clinic by himself, keep food down, and—though his sleep was still a mess—spend three hours focused on data.
That afternoon, Vulture brought news: "He's here."
They met in the bell tower of an abandoned church just north of the Mexican border. Vulture said it was an old rendezvous—nobody came, nobody wanted to.
At 4:30pm, a gray Jeep with Colorado plates rolled slow and casual into the yard, as if out on holiday.
The door opened. Out stepped a man in a linen suit and sunglasses, hair cut just right to look artfully tousled, a trace of stubble on his chin, shoes spotless enough to never have seen sand. He wheeled a wine-red carry-on, a bottle of water in one hand.
He looked up, saw Vulture at the bell tower, and grinned:
"Hola, amigo."
Vulture raised an eyebrow. "What's with the Spanish? You forget you're supposed to be British?"
The man smirked and sauntered up, taking off his shades. "International man of mystery, mate. Years in exile—one picks up a bit."
Vulture shot Fox a sideways glance, voice low: "Tell me, do all you Brits either go by John or James? Do your passports come pre-printed with a Brit template or what?"
Fox didn't crack a smile, just arched an eyebrow. "James is overdone. At least John's making an effort."
"I can hear you, gentlemen," Brit said dryly. "But I don't mind. You may call me Jim, if you must. I'll answer to anything after three gin and tonics."
"'Jim' sounds like a cabbie," Vulture muttered. "All right, let's see what you brought."
They headed inside the bell tower.
Brit popped open his bag. No clothes. Instead: a compact satellite interception kit, three passports, a silver envelope, and a box of mints.
"Business first," he said, setting up the kit and plugging it into a battered laptop.
He pointed to a jagged line on the screen. "This is a call I intercepted ten days ago. Originated in Malta, landed in a private building in Manhattan. The speaker's head of a security company—interesting fellow."
He hit play.
Through static, a man's voice, barely accented, filtered in: "…Confirmed, he's not dead. Records indicate he received medical care somewhere in Mexico… Yes… I know how to proceed."
Fox's pupils narrowed at once.
"You sure about who's on the other end?" he asked.
"Not a hundred percent," Brit replied. "But the registered receiver is a chap named Albrecht Doyle—D's favorite alias the past three months."
"He knows I'm alive," Fox muttered.
Brit nodded. "And he's casting a new net, prepping to clean up his loose ends."
Vulture's eyes narrowed on the terminal. "What's his next play?"
"He'll sweep your contacts or wait for you to stick your neck out—and then make his move. One shot, no mess."
"Then we'll just have to move first," Fox said, standing, his gaze sharpening.
Brit shut the kit and tossed three passports on the table. "Here—identities good for three months. Full records: border crossings, insurance, jabs. Burn them after use."
"What's in it for you?" Vulture eyed him.
Brit flashed a foxlike grin. "Call it settling old debts. D didn't just screw you—he tried to sell me once, too. I'm here for the pleasure of watching him get minced."
Fox's expression stayed flat. "Strange. You look like the churchgoing type. Turns out you're more of a Satan fan."
Brit shrugged. "Heaven's too bright for me, I'm afraid. I've always found hell more welcoming."
Things went smoothly, until the trail went cold again at the sixth coordinate.
This time, the clue was a coded transfer from a Swiss account—sent from Izmir, Turkey, landing in a tiny U.S. "investment firm" housed in a barn, its paperwork triple-jumped through Caribbean shells. Brit traced it, frowning. "Are you sure this man isn't just a hedge fund scammer?"
Fox, eyes on the printout, answered in that deadpan Jersey murmur: "Anyone in the arms game's gotta learn to launder. He's just cleaner than most."
They drove for two days, three fake IDs each, across two states to that barn.
Cloudy, dust in the air. Vulture walked ahead, gun loose at his back. They barely spoke—by now, their team moved like one organism: the moment the enemy twitched, three hands would go for steel.
But this time, there was only one enemy.
It hit them once inside—no guards, no thermal alarms, just silence, and a faint "pop" far off in the grass.
One shot. A bullet shattered the Jeep's side mirror from a kilometer away.
Vulture dove for cover, hitting concrete just in time to raise his rifle. Second shot—sniper blew off his scope.
Glass and steel shattered—a calling card from Death.
Vulture ducked, licked blood from his lip. "Goddamn it! That was a brand-new scope!"
Brit, tracking the shot angles, muttered, "West slope, out in the grass. Only two shots. That's a—"
"Bolt-action," Fox cut in, already firing up his drone controller. "He's using precision, not suppressive fire."
Vulture spat. "That's a German. I know the style—'White Eagle.' Europe's finest freelance trigger-man. Guy wiped out a whole merc crew in Croatia last year."
"Usual weapon?"
"Probably a Blaser R8 or a TAC338. Deadly accurate, but slow reload. Five shots, tops."
Fox grinned, blood in his teeth, working the controls. "Figures. Germans do love a one-shot finish."
He launched a quadcopter—lightweight, C4 and a bouncing mine attached underneath.
Barely a breeze. Flight path clean.
Vulture behind the wall, watching. "Two shots left. Launch two more, force him to move."
"Please," Fox muttered, already sending up a second, third, fourth drone. "Thank String for the flight code—her autopilot's like Kobe on a helecopter. I know the start, I know the finish. Whatever happens between, Well, no need to have an idea."
He cracked a smile at Brit. "Did you know a Tiger tank could knock out four Shermans in WWII?"
Brit squinted, dry: "And the point would be?"
Fox's smile was cold, old-school Jersey: "Allies always had a fifth Sherman."
"And I brought more than five drones."
On cue, the fifth drone rose. Out in the grass, a thin trail of smoke—sniper's third shot, clipped one drone but exposed his position.
Fox's hand moved in a blur—two drones dove, straight for the mark.
The hillside split with fire, shockwave ripping up dirt and roots. Blackened air, burning grass.
Vulture waited ten seconds, shook dust from his jacket. "He's dead."
"You sure?"
"Fragments from his fancy rifle are stuck in his skull. That's sure enough."
Fox powered down his gear, packed the last drone.
"D's running out of hands."
"And the ones left get pricier." Brit arched a brow. "Do you know what that German cost?"
Fox zipped his bag, not looking up. "I don't care what D paid. He pays in blood now."
Vulture watched the smoldering hillside, voice low, "Let's make sure D's tab keeps getting bigger."
Fox's tone dropped, sharp as steel: "Until he can't afford to pay."