Third floor of the abandoned building.
Ghost had Ethan pinned.
Christmas had Declan locked down.
Luther sat trussed in front of Dade.
Six people, one circle, measuring each other in the dust and dark.
Ethan took in the state of his teammates and gave a helpless smile.
Luther and Declan looked equally sheepish. Ethan had warned them to be careful—these operators weren't ordinary. Neither man had listened. Tonight's operation had ended in a clean defeat.
"Why are you smiling? You're still tied up," Christmas said, patting Ethan's shoulder, teasing without malice.
Ethan looked to the skull-masked man and asked, curious and calm, "SAS?"
Ghost held his stare and said nothing.
Ethan tried again. "Close-quarters form is pure SAS—Sabre Squadron signatures. You were SAS Sabre, weren't you?"
Ghost's eyes hardened with something like contempt. He shook his head once. Betrayed, not retired.
He checked his watch. "Why isn't Arthur back yet?"
Christmas frowned. Fifteen minutes since they'd sat the IMF team down. With Arthur's ability, he shouldn't be slower than them.
"Jane's the strongest fighter on our team," Declan said with a smug grin. "Your guy's probably already been taken down by her."
"You think Arthur isn't the strongest on ours?" Christmas chuckled, tapping Declan's cheek lightly.
Back at base, they'd all sparred with Arthur. In pure hand-to-hand, Yin Yang sat first, Ghost second, Arthur third. In blades, Arthur was unmatched. In marksmanship, no contest—Arthur outshot everyone, Ghost included. On balance of skills, Arthur ranked first, Ghost second. The rest clustered behind.
Hearing it laid out, Ethan's brow knotted. The Round Table were beyond what he'd expected—every one of them elite, with a hacker who outclassed Luther.
Footsteps on concrete.
Arthur came up the stairwell with Jane at his side. Her hands weren't tied, but her lips were a shade swollen—just enough for everyone to clock it.
"What are you staring at, you useless lot?" Jane glared at Declan, irritated. She wasn't hurt, but the man opposite had been infuriating.
Christmas and Ghost traded the same look Ethan did.
"Time and place next time, Arthur," Christmas drawled. "And maybe… practice. Blink and you'll be accused of rushing it."
Arthur spread his hands. "Easy. It was a few kisses, not the last step."
"Cut them loose," Arthur said.
Christmas stepped over and sliced the rope from Ethan, Luther, and Declan.
"Ethan Hunt," Arthur said, offering a hand. "Cole Shaw. Call me Arthur. I lead the Round Table."
Ethan was a touch surprised. He'd assumed Ghost was the infamous lead; turned out it was the younger man in front of him.
"Understood," Ethan said, business like. "We lost the opener. I know the brief. What's your next move?"
"Tomorrow afternoon we stage the handoff with your IMF people," Arthur said. "That's when Owen Davian's crew should surface. Your primary is to bring Davian back to the U.S.—and smoke out John, your mole."
He split it cleanly. "Two-track plan. One: Rabbit's Foot 'falls' to you mid-fight. Once you're holding it, John will reach out—he has to. Two: we leak that intel across to Davian's side. He'll move to meet John. We pinch them between."
Arthur wouldn't be the fist taking custody. Better to let IMF and Davian grind each other, then control the board. After the clash, he'd make sure the Rabbit's Foot was destroyed at a controlled time. It didn't belong in anyone's hands.
Ethan nodded. It fit his instincts. "We can lower our risk by choosing ground we control and swapping Rabbit's Foot before Davian's men hit us. Even if Davian 'wins,' he walks with a fake."
"Name the ground," Arthur said. "Find me a site we can operate without bleeding civilians or blowing our cover."
"I already have it." Ethan brought up a map on the tablet and tapped a district. "The Continental Hotel."
"The Continental…?" Arthur echoed—then the recognition clicked.
The man who started with a dog and burned the underworld to ash.
There are three things you don't touch in the movies.
First: you don't touch John Wick's dog—one dead beagle, and a whole crime family gets erased.
Second: you don't touch Bryan Mills' daughter—Taken proves a retired spook can dismantle a trafficking ring by himself.
The third's debated, but in Arthur's book? Don't mess with Frank Martin's package—Transporter logic, where a man kills a helicopter with a car.