When they reached the seventh coordinate in the southeast, the trail went cold.
Funds were frozen, emails deactivated, burner phones snapped in half, and one of the middlemen they'd been tracking—a guy in a New Orleans casino—suddenly "jumped" from a balcony.
"Mr. D is closing up shop," Brit said, standing at the empty dock, flicking at a half-burned slip of paper with nothing left but a QR code. "He knows we're on his scent."
Fox frowned, silent—not angry, just weighing if this path was now a dead end.
They were still thinking it through when Vulture's phone rang.
Unknown number.
Vulture picked up. On the other end, a man said just one thing: "If you still want Mr. D, someone wants to talk."
Then hung up.
An hour later, an $800,000 Maybach parked outside their motel. The window never came down; just a gold-embossed invitation slipped out.
Address: Palm Beach, Florida. Thomas' Lounge.
"Are we going?" Vulture asked.
Fox nodded. "Why not? It's the richest zip code in America. Trump's Mar-a-Lago is next door. Even if it's D's people, nobody's dumb enough to start something in that neighborhood."
They showed up as told.
The "lounge" wasn't an office, but a private marina's underground wine cellar. The walls were lined with antique rifles, brass telescopes, and fifty-year-old Macallan. Thomas sat in the center, wrapped in a navy silk robe, crocodile slippers, a cigarette dangling from his lips—seventy-something, hair white as salt, and just a hint of Sicilian drawl.
"Welcome, Mr. Fox." He spoke as if they were old friends.
"You know me?"
"I know you. And I know you killed the White Eagle."
Fox's expression didn't change, but his voice chilled a half degree. "He was trying to kill us."
"I don't blame you," Thomas waved it off. "He was my first pick, but now he's barbecue. So I'm asking you boys for a favor instead."
"Jewelry job?" Fox guessed, flat.
"Correct." Thomas smiled. "Private jeweler, Miami Beach. My competitor's stashed some goods there—off the books, not insured. You get it out for me, I'll hand you Mr. D's whereabouts."
"Why us?" Fox met his gaze. "You could've hired someone cleaner."
Thomas spread his hands. "White Eagle's dead. That makes you second dirtiest—also, the most efficient. I don't care about clean hands. I care about results."
Fox didn't answer right away. He just tapped the table three times, then spoke:
"Fine. But we want seventy percent."
Thomas laughed, rich and easy. "You robbing the jewels, or robbing me?"
"I'm selling my neck." Fox didn't blink. "You give us intel, we do the job, and take out a target you won't touch yourself. Seventy-thirty's fair."
"You got the gear for a job like that?" Thomas arched a brow.
"Not your worry," Fox replied. "All I want is Mr. D when it's over."
A cold pause.
Then Thomas snubbed his smoke, sighed with theatrical patience:
"You know, you guys, you all remind me of the bastards back in London's financial circles—always digging under the city, always wanting more."
He stood, stretching, silk robe gleaming. "So, here's what I'll do: seventy for me, thirty for you. I'll supply guns, transport, backup."
"You gotta be joking. That's not even danger pay," Fox shot back.
"Sixty-forty, amici! Best deal you'll ever get. You want to die old in a hospital bed, tubes in your arms, or you want a chance to be a legend?"
Fox gave him a half-smirk, already rising. "My plan is to be a legend with a tube in my arm. If you're not serious, we'll walk and chase D ourselves."
Thomas blocked his path, smile gone sharp.
"Fifty-fifty. I'll throw in a plane, offshore IDs, and a forty-eight hour escape window when it's done."
Fox grinned. "Deal."
Thomas strode into a coded back office. Three minutes later, he returned and tossed a silver USB drive on the table.
"Blueprints, guard shifts, stash locations. And, as a bonus—Mr. D's private doctor was spotted in Prague."
Fox picked up the drive. Didn't bother with thanks.
Thomas didn't mind. He just flashed that ancient, amused look.
"Bring me the jewels. I'll get you your phone call with him—alive."
Fox held up the silver USB like a key.
That night, the three of them huddled in the safehouse Thomas provided—old blueprints and city maps pinned up, files from the USB projected onto a bedsheet.
"Weapons are all from Thomas," Vulture said, stripping down three FN FALs like he was deboning fish. "Mags, cleaning kits, spare barrels—he's got us covered."
"What about wheels?" Fox asked.
"EVO10, black, souped up, reinforced chassis, custom tags, trunk's got a false bottom. Retired rally car, now with a legal plate. Fast, roomy, built to ram."
Fox nodded, walked to the map. "All that's left is getting the goods out, clean."
Brit spread his file folder. "Security system's old—hybrid three-line circuit. Main box is in the storeroom behind the counter. Three cams: front door, showcase, and rear exit. No thermal."
"Guards?"
"Two ex-Marines, local, working shifts. Day guy's got diabetes, drops focus after 3pm. He orders donuts every afternoon—I've already traced his delivery routine."
Fox grinned. "We hit at two-thirty sharp."
"Store's daily intake swings, but under the counter's where the real stash is. Mostly private stuff—rings, watches, rubies, custom chains. Ballpark value: seven million."
Vulture looked up. "And we fence it how?"
"Thomas has a wash route set. He only wants three pieces—rest is ours."
For the next two days, they scouted the site.
March in Miami was all sunlight and salt wind, exhaust mixing with the scent of sea and oil in the air. That afternoon they wore no armor, carried no guns—just cruised up to the jeweler in the Porsche 930. Plates were fake, but the car was real luxury—old, but the matte black paint and red interior caught every eye.
Brit wore a tailored suit and leaned on a rosewood cane, somewhere between charity donor and nouveau riche. The second he walked in, he started the show.
"Excuse me, my dear," he beamed at the shop girl in his best faux-London drawl, "I'm searching for a trinket for my nephew's wedding. Poor chap's getting hitched—shame it's not to another bloke, but what can you do?"
She blinked, but was swept along by his banter, laughing as she pulled out trays.
"How heavy's this piece? How's the cut? Is it worth defying the family priest?"
Brit was half-texting as he talked. "Need to send a snap to my dreadful sister—see if her darling boy would approve."
Meanwhile, Fox and Vulture strolled in sporting off-brand hypebeast gear, GoPros on headbands, and a pair of vlog cameras—every inch the out-of-town YouTube jewel reviewers.
"Checking out the priciest jewelry spot in Miami today—rumor is, there's a royal-grade diamond in here, so let's find out!" Fox spoke smooth into the lens, pure West Coast with a twist.
The clerk hesitated, then smiled. "You can film, just don't bother the other customers."
"No worries!" Vulture's camera panned the whole store—showcases, cameras, floor layout, back door, alarm.
Ten minutes "shooting content" at the counter—Brit, meanwhile, steered the clerk into opening the storeroom, just to "show off the family treasures" Thomas had marked.
"I'll just look around the neighborhood, you know, comparison shopping!" Brit chirped, flashing that grin. "But honestly, your selection puts the Queen's to shame."
They left with a "review video," Porsche rumbling away in the sun, not a shot fired, recon done.
That night, they holed up in the safehouse—a beat-up garage on the edge of Miami's old industrial district, near the rails, perfect for laying low and bailing quick. Yellow light seeped through the blinds, plans and stolen access sheets spread on the table.
Fox marked the shop on the map with three camera blind spots and a skinny alley out back: "From breach to exit, ten minutes max. Cops average seven and a half minutes to show, but we play it like five. If anyone hits the panic, we're toast."
Brit lit a cigarette, voice low: "As long as we keep it clean, no shooting, it stays a property crime. Cops only chase, they don't swarm."
Vulture unzipped a pack, showing off thermite sticks and igniters. "These'll cut through the main door in two. Direct heat on the hinges and lock, no noise, none of the boom-boom."
He tapped the reinforced vault in the manager's office. "Once we're in, I crack the safe."
Fox cut in: "You got the combo?"
Brit grinned, tapping his tablet—security footage from two weeks ago, snagged with a phishing mail. The finance manager, just before shift change, recording herself entering the code, mumbling the numbers out of habit.
"We ran the audio and timing on the backup safe three times—can reproduce it on command."
The plan was tight.
Fox and the Brit would move in first to secure the people. The Brit came in disguised as a delivery man—three seconds after the main door opened, he drew a silenced pistol, all intimidation. Fox looped in through the back, sliding into the staff lounge to cut off any alarms. Both carried handcuffs and single-use jammers, killing every comms device in fifteen seconds flat.
Meanwhile, Vulture took a bag loaded with thermite charges straight to the finance office. He'd torch the lock and upper hinge with a jet of white-hot flame, clearing the smoke with a portable fan. The safe was tucked in a reinforced corner surrounded by concrete and steel; once exposed, he'd jam the alarm signal with an RF scrambler, then spin the dial by hand and punch in the code to grab Thomas's main target—a blue diamond.
The rest of the safe held extra jewels, petty cash, and a stack of high-value checks. They'd take anything small and worth the trouble, leave the heavy stuff. Out front, Fox and the Brit swept the register, vacuum-bagging the day's take into tactical packs.
Their exit route was drilled and timed. They'd be gone by minute five—Fox behind the wheel of the EVO, new plates, camo mud smeared on the sides. No main roads, just a run through two dead rail spurs in the industrial district.
"The most important piece," Fox said, holding up a hacked signal transmitter, "is these. Five junk GPS phones. We drop 'em north, southeast, downtown. The cops'll chase ghosts, thinking we split three ways. We're actually diving into the sewers, right to the river, then switching to a boat."
He pulled a sewer map from under the city grid. A handful of corroded manhole covers had already been loosened days before. Five hundred meters offshore, a black speedboat waited—registered as a fishing vessel under a fake name.
"Remember," the Brit warned, voice clipped, "keep the clock, no heroics. Five and a half minutes—if we're not out, we walk, no souvenirs."
Miami sunlight beat down, the city half asleep in the sticky afternoon. Outside the jewelry store, not many pedestrians—a few tourists in shorts, snapping selfies.
2:28 pm, right on schedule.
The diabetic security guard sat in the break room, downing his third donut and a cup of insulin-laced iced tea. He was glued to a ballgame on his tablet; the radio headset lay slack on his shoulder.
2:29 pm, first door opens.
The Brit, dressed in courier blues, face half-hidden by a mask, carried a hard-case with a big delivery logo. He rang the bell, and three seconds later, the door buzzed open. His smile was easy as any delivery guy's—until his left hand nudged the door and his right flashed up a suppressed P226.
2:30 pm sharp, Fox slipped through the back. Past the supply closet and bathroom, into staff quarters, head covered, sunglasses on, cuffs taped to his wrist. FN FAL slung low, but in his hand a Taser and a jammer. He floored a guard taking a bathroom break—"Afternoon, buddy!"—and before security could react to the camera feed, the Taser tags landed in the guy's gut.
Signal went dead. The alarm system, technically still on backup battery, was now cut off from its cellular uplink—rendered a blinking toy.
Fifteen seconds: five staff members locked down, including the front-desk girl and the donut-munching guard.
2:31 pm, Vulture's turn. He rolled in with a long duffel, straight to the finance room's steel door. Fingerprint pad already bypassed, all he had to do was slap on the thermite, light it up across lock and hinges.
Two minutes later, the door sagged—molten seams leaking silver, then clattered loose with a nudge.
He clicked on his flashlight and went inside, the metallic tang thick in the air. Old, but solid: exactly the safe they'd spent two weeks hunting for.
He keyed the mic. "Fox, I'm up."
Fox: "You got ninety seconds."
Vulture dropped to his knees, spun the dial in a quick rhythm, all muscle memory, no guesswork. Thirty-five seconds—last click, handle turned.
"We're open."
Inside: perfect rows, blue diamond set left, black velvet, cold fire dancing in the taclight beam.
"Got the target."
2:34 pm, register sweep complete. Fox and the Brit moved like surgeons, vacuum-bagging every small high-value piece into packs. The display glass was untouched, no injuries—aside from a few twitching guards, the place could've just had a deep clean.
"Clear. Let's move."
2:35 pm, all three out, new jackets, shades, gloves, masks—no faces on camera.
Fox behind the wheel of the black EVO 10. One stomp—tires screech, twin black stripes, gone like a snake in the brush.
But the police were quicker than planned.
The alarm had been triggered at the 29-second mark—one staffer had nudged a silent panic button in their pocket, relaying to city control. Nearby, a K-9 unit was just three blocks out.
Miami PD's response? Two Ford Explorers, a K-9 team, and a Bell 407 with FLIR, all Rapid Deployment. Radio chatter cracked overhead.
"South-21, intercept! Jewelry store silent alarm, possible armed robbery!"
Fox checked the rearview—two SUVs coming from either alley, lights pulsing in the glare.
"Showtime," he murmured, downshifting and punching it for the railyard.
Sirens built like a breaking wave.
EVO roared onto a dirt spur, shocks bottoming out, Fox's hands glued to the wheel. "Ready for the drop."
The Brit handed over the first batch of fake GPS units, tagging and pitching them out at every fork—instant decoys lighting up police maps all over downtown.
Above, the chopper began to circle wider, tracking the new "targets."
They shot under a rusted freight spur, past dead transformers and skidding the tires through a sandy lot—Fox barely blinked.
"They're falling behind, but still tracking us," Vulture grunted, watching the helicopter's glow drift further off.
"We'll hit the northwest manhole, out at the marina's drain in three." Fox gritted his teeth. "No stops. If we park, they pounce."
The Brit cracked open a hidden panel under the floorboards, yanked the loosened cover.
No hesitation—Fox drove the EVO straight down the ramp and into the gloom. Water gurgled, sewer stink mixing with gasoline.
Police cars skidded at the alley's mouth, missing the turn.
Fifteen seconds later, the EVO crawled out the far end, under a bridge. The black boat was waiting.
No one in sight; it was all automatic—just a set of throttle and steering instructions left behind.
All three piled in, Fox hit the start. The engine thundered, water slammed the hull, and they ripped away from the dock.
Stern rising, the city skyline sliding behind them—chopper lights still flitting far overhead, but the trio slipped unseen into the boat traffic, melting among the fishing fleet.
Fox cut the GPS, switched to the chart.
"Eight minutes, and we hit Thomas's private water. Another ten, and we're ghosts."
The Brit glanced at the blue diamond, sparkling in his pack, and grinned. "Smoother than I expected. I can already smell the money and the fresh air."
Night fell. Thomas's villa rose at the end of the West Palm Beach coast, an isolated fortress—backyard spilling into the marina, white jasmine and flame trees everywhere, sea wind sliding over the glass.
By the pool, jazz played low, bourbon in the air, and the three of them, washed clean of gunpowder and sweat, lounged on the terrace with cold tequila. Sunset was gone, only reflections and calm.
Thomas, now in a tailored charcoal suit, strolled over, a bodyguard dropping a military-grade lockbox on the table.
He said little. He just opened the case—crisp bundles of cash, a stack of papers.
"Your cut," he said, unhurried. "After laundering, it's roughly $27 million. Minus transfer and handling fees, that's $13.5 million for you."
Fox didn't grab for the cash. Instead, he focused on the other items: a set of silver keys, two new guns wrapped in oiled canvas, a flight license sealed in green, and—a USB drive.
"These as agreed," Thomas added. "One armored SUV, titled to your offshore ID, waiting at Orlando port. Guns—an FNX-45 tactical, a custom black-and-grey AR-15, and a GM6 Lynx with night optics. The plane is a Cessna 680, prepped at a private field on the Cuban border. Crew doesn't ask questions."
Fox ran numbers on his phone: $30 million × (1 - 12%) = $26.4 million. Thomas was paying a premium.
"Checks out," Brit said, pouring a drink. "Old Thomas, you do keep your word."
Thomas smiled, waving for a servant to bring over a bottle.
It was a 1950 Château Latour, label yellowed, red wax seal, private cellar stock.
"This was for my nephew's wedding," Thomas chuckled, "but honestly, you lot deserve a better party than a wedding."
He uncorked it himself, poured four glasses, and raised his.
"To a clean job, to your efficiency, and to your professional silence."
The four glasses clinked—a contract with no signatures.
They stayed for two hours—drinking, unwinding, watching the surf and the last drone's red blink cross the sky. Thomas joked and talked, never trying to impress, just radiating the patient edge of a hunter retired but not soft.
As the night wound down, Thomas brought the last glass to Fox.
"If you ever want more work like this—I hope we'll do business again."
Fox spun his glass, cool and sharp. "Maybe. But we've got unfinished business first."
"Mr. D," Thomas nodded, not pushing further.
"I hope you find him," he said, and meant it.
He smiled and lifted his glass to the three of them. "Good luck out there."
Fox raised his in return, but this time, didn't clink—just drained it.
That lingering, silent hunger for revenge—it was like a riptide below the surface, invisible, but always pushing them out to sea, away from now, into whatever came next.
Their plane lifted off before dawn.
And vengeance was still out there, waiting.