(The Ocean Shore - Flash-Forward)
The sudden, brutal darkness fractured. Jack coughed, his body convulsing as he expelled salt water and sand. The noise of the ocean was deafening, a relentless roar that replaced the storm's fury. He opened his eyes, squinting against the harsh morning sun reflecting off wet sand. He was washed up on a small, rocky shore, the debris of the speedboat scattered around them like splintered teeth. Beside him, Black was groaning, dragging himself onto the beach.
"Well," Jack rasped, his voice shredded. "That was one hell of a ride. Marcus...?"
Before Black could answer, a curt, authoritative voice sliced through the pain.
"Manos arriba! Policía!"
Jack looked up. Two Spanish police officers, drenched but grimly professional, were pointing their service pistols directly at their heads.
(CUT TO: The Himalayas - Present Day)
The image of the guns and the police uniforms vanished. Jack was back on the icy ledge, the wind whipping his hair. The memory was a fresh, terrifying burn. He and Black had survived the crash, but they hadn't escaped the consequences. They had to move. Now.
Black had already pulled himself onto the rock face above, discarding the cable Jack had thrown. He looked down at Jack, his face a mask of cold resolve, stripped bare of his usual composure.
"Jack," Black rasped, his voice barely a whisper, the formality gone. "We are not alone. And they know we have the words."
Jack pulled himself onto the ledge next to Black, dropping his own exhausted body onto the frozen stone. He looked up, past the swirling snow, toward the crumbling structure high above.
"The words? The ones we shattered? Mansa Musa's riddle?" Jack asked. "Well, let's just hope 'The river flows' is enough to go on, because right now, I'm thinking about flowing right back down this damn mountain."
(AERIAL SHOT: The massive, broken train wreckage fills the screen. Sections are scattered down the mountainside, their contents spilling out—crates, luggage, and luxury goods.)
"We walk through," Black stated, pointing down a terrifying, unstable path running alongside the first section of the wreckage. "We use the collapsed cars for cover. They are a labyrinth of steel."
Jack stared at the wreckage path. "The other train cars that are scattered around the scene, with fire on most of the cargo? That's our route? Jesus Christ, Black. You're trying to get me killed before the bad guys even show up."
They began navigating the treacherous route, stepping carefully over frozen, twisted tracks. Inside the cars, the luxury cargo was aflame—whiskey-soaked leather seats and fine woods burning with a thick, choking smoke that mingled with the cold mountain air. They moved with silent, synchronized discipline, a partnership forged in constant chaos.
Suddenly, a cluster of black SUVs, remarkably intact, crested the nearest ridge. The doors flew open, and three figures in dark tactical gear—the men in suits from the museum chase, somehow having tracked them—emerged, leveling rifles.
(ACTION SHOT: Jack and Black dive behind the massive, severed engine block as automatic fire rips through the air, tearing chunks of ice and steel from the wreckage above them.)
"Really?" Jack screamed, returning fire blindly. "These motherfuckers followed us to the roof of the world? Can't a guy just have a little life-threatening isolation?"
They moved from cover to cover, their pistols spitting short bursts, the chaos intensified by the sudden, intense action. Black moved like a shadow, taking aim and dropping the first shooter with two clean shots to the chest. Jack rolled behind a burning crate, using the heat to thaw his fingers, and eliminated the second.
The third, however, was a giant. A huge, bald man with a heavy machine gun and a furious, methodical advance. He stepped over the bodies of his teammates, his weapon chewing up the wreckage around Jack and Black.
The giant trapped them, pinning Black behind a splintered cargo hold. The man advanced, aiming the heavy weapon directly at Black's head. Black's pistol was empty. He lunged for a rock, too slow.
Jack saw it all unfold in agonizing slow motion. He saw the end of his partner. Ripping a magazine from his own vest, Jack scrambled across a treacherous, ice-slicked girder, ignoring the fire and the pain in his leg. He fired three quick shots into the giant's massive torso—no effect. The giant laughed, his eyes fixed on Black.
(CLOSE UP on Jack's face, pure desperation.) Jack switched targets, aiming precisely where he knew the brain stem met the spine. His final, desperate bullet connected with a sickening thud. The giant froze mid-laugh, his eyes widening in surprise before his massive body crumpled backward, falling sideways into the burning interior of a train car, the machine gun firing one last, useless burst into the sky.
(CUT TO: Prison Yard - Flash-Forward)
Jack and Black, clad in faded, rough prison uniforms, stood back-to-back in the central, sun-drenched courtyard. They were surrounded by a jeering circle of prisoners, all covered in intricate, garish tattoos. Facing them were two massive men, their arms thicker than Jack's legs, their faces set in sneering challenges.
One of the tattooed men spat on the ground. "You two pretty boys think you're tough? You will suck these nuts!"
The fight began in a blinding blur. (CINEMATIC FIGHT CHOREOGRAPHY: utilizing the environment and teamwork.)
Black moved first, fluid and economical, dodging a massive haymaker from the first tattooed brute. He used the man's momentum against him, slamming his head against a metal water fountain. Jack, meanwhile, was grappling with the second, heavier man, using his speed to evade brute force. When the first brute recovered, Jack tossed a handful of dirt into his eyes. Black used the distraction, spinning and delivering a textbook spinning hook kick that sent the tattooed man sprawling over a discarded bench.
Jack was now being choked by the second man. (Jack grabs a discarded plate from the ground, smashes it, and uses the jagged edge to score a shallow cut across the prisoner's forearm.) The man roared, releasing Jack. Black sprinted forward, using a chain that had been lying nearby, wrapping it expertly around the man's throat and legs, then yanking. The man crashed down, tangled and subdued.
The yard erupted in cheers and jeers. Jack and Black stood over their unconscious opponents, breathing heavily, their partnership seamless and deadly.
(CUT TO: Prison Interior - Minutes Later)
The prison officers weren't impressed. Jack and Black were escorted by a pair of guards down a cold, echoing hallway toward the interrogation room.
They were strapped into heavy wooden chairs. In front of Jack was a crude, makeshift electric chair—exposed wires leading to a rusty generator.
"Oh no, not this again," Jack muttered, testing his restraints.
Just as the officer reached for the power switch, the door burst open. The large, first tattooed prisoner they had fought—the one Black had kicked—slammed the guard in the back of the head with a tray, dropping him instantly.
"You owe me one, pretty boy," the tattooed prisoner grunted, quickly unlocking Black, who immediately helped free Jack.
The alarms instantly began to scream, turning the prison from a quiet, cold fortress into a hive of ringing chaos.
(PRISON BREAK)
They dashed down the hall, taking out any guard who crossed their path with brutal, efficient teamwork. They moved through kitchens and laundry rooms, climbing ductwork, and finally emerging onto the massive, sprawling prison rooftop.
They ran, a desperate dash across the uneven, gravel-and-tar roofline, leaping from roof to roof, the searchlights sweeping around them. The tattooed prisoner, surprisingly nimble, was leading the way.
"This is almost romantic!" Jack yelled over the alarms, leaping a six-foot gap.
As the tattooed man made a particularly ambitious jump for the next roof, a muffled gunshot rang out from the distant watchtower. The man grunted, clutching his chest. He tumbled mid-air, spinning violently, before landing on a water tower below with a tremendous, comical SQUISH and a spray of rusty water.
Jack stared down in disbelief. "Well, that guy definitely sucked those nuts," Jack deadpanned.
Black pulled Jack into a final, dramatic plunge onto a lower street, where a black car was waiting, engine running. They tumbled into the back seat, gasping.
(CUT TO: Hideout - Days Later)
They resurfaced in a hidden, dimly lit safehouse—a small, cluttered apartment filled with books, maps, and high-tech gear. They were now clean, dressed in casual travel clothes.
On a large table, the three shattered pieces of the bronze stylus lay under a magnifying lamp. Jack, Black, and Marcus—who was alive but sporting a large bandage and a permanently pained expression—were meticulously piecing together the fragmented history.
"The river flows where the gold hides... Look for the eye beneath the mountain, where the serpent sleeps forever," Jack recited, tracing the ancient words.
"The river, the mountain, the serpent..." Black muttered, pulling ancient Portuguese navigational maps and Mali Empire trade routes. "Mansa Musa's gold was famous for financing massive construction projects. He loved symbolism."
Marcus, hunched over a laptop, found the key. "Wait. The Rio Urubamba in Peru. It flows through the Sacred Valley. There's a formation there, an Incan lookout point called El Ojo de la Montaña—The Eye of the Mountain."
Black superimposed the Incan map over a geological survey. "And the local mythology speaks of Amaru, the massive subterranean serpent... that is the location. The Eye beneath the mountain."
Jack grinned, a true, predatory grin. "Mansa Musa put his treasure on the other side of the world, hidden by Incan legend. That is one fucking smart lunatic."
Peru it was.
(CUT TO: Peruvian Jungle - Later)
They reached the jungle by a shaky, hired plane and hiked in on foot. The air here was thick, wet, and oppressive, the humidity an immediate physical weight. The Peruvian jungle was a vertical world—massive trees with canopies that blotted out the sun, turning the floor into an emerald gloom. The ground was a muddy carpet of rotting leaves and slick moss, crisscrossed by tangled, root-thick vines thicker than a man's arm. Giant, iridescent blue butterflies flitted through the occasional shaft of sunlight, and the incessant buzz of insects was a constant, high-pitched soundtrack.
Jack, sweating profusely in his lightweight khaki gear, was hacking through the undergrowth. Black, looking utterly miserable in the damp heat, was meticulously checking their six o'clock position.
They followed a tributary river—the Rio Urubamba—until they reached a dense, impenetrable ridge.
"This is it," Jack breathed, dropping his machete. "The coordinates match the Eye."
Black nodded, his eyes scanning the dense foliage to their left, not the objective. "We need to set up camp."
Just then, Jack saw him. Flitting through the green gloom—not one of the men in suits, but a different breed. Mercenaries. Dressed in modern, dark-green fatigues, their faces obscured by grime and netting, carrying high-tech, suppressed weaponry. They moved with silent, trained efficiency.
One of them paused, turning his head slowly toward Jack and Black. He saw them.
The chapter ended there.