The Continental Hotel. The Vault.
Hunter knew it was rude to stare at the old man's missing eye, so he exercised his enhanced self-control and shifted his gaze.
"Hunter Sun," he said simply, nodding in greeting. "Pleasure."
The one-eyed man, Porter, didn't smile. He gave a curt nod, pulled a file from his desk, and flipped through it.
"Snod contract," Porter grunted, his voice like gravel. He looked up at Cole. "Max payout? Five hundred grand?"
Cole nodded.
Porter gave Hunter a long, measuring look with his remaining eye. Then he stood up and walked to one of the safety deposit boxes behind him. He inserted a key, blocked the view with his body while punching in a code, and opened it.
Click.
He pulled out a heavy brown paper package. It was stuffed tight.
Hunter had recently handled $45 million in cash from the Stanfield raid, so the sight of stacks of Franklins didn't make his heart race. But money was money.
"Going forward, Hunter," Cole interjected smoothly, "your contract payments will be wired directly to an offshore account of your choosing. Only special bounties and bonuses are handled in cash by Porter."
Hunter hesitated, then asked the question that had been bugging him.
"Won't a sudden influx of large transfers trigger an IRS audit?"
This was America. You could outrun the police, outsmart the FBI, maybe even dodge the CIA. But the IRS? They were the ones who took down Al Capone. They were relentless, bureaucratic terminators who would burn your life down over a decimal point.
Cole smiled. It was a smile of supreme arrogance.
"Rest assured," Cole said softly. "No one audits Continental accounts. Because no one can afford the price of asking us questions."
Hunter paused. Is that an answer or a threat to the IRS? probably both.
While he processed that, Porter shoved the brown package across the desk.
"Five hundred thousand," Porter rasped. "Count it if you want. I wouldn't."
"I trust you," Hunter said, taking the package. It was heavy, but compared to the duffel bags from the DEA building, it felt light.
"Thanks."
Hunter held the package, his expression neutral. To a man who had seen a mountain of cash, a molehill didn't impress him.
"Don't run off yet," Cole said, noticing Hunter's glance toward the door. "You haven't received your real payment yet."
Cole nodded at Porter.
Reluctantly, the one-eyed man opened a drawer in his desk. He reached in and pulled out a single coin.
He tossed it to Hunter.
Clink.
Hunter caught it. It was heavy. Solid gold. On one side, a lion stood in front of a shield with a sunburst behind it. On the other, a woman holding a cross.
Ex Unitae Vires.
He recognized it instantly from the John Wick movies. The currency of the underworld.
"What's this?" Hunter asked, feigning ignorance.
"We call it a Continental Coin," Cole explained with pride. "Or a Marker, depending on the context. But usually, just a Coin."
"Each coin contains roughly one ounce of gold. But its value is not in the metal."
"It is a currency of favors and access. Inside these walls, this coin buys you services that cash cannot touch. Disposal. Weaponry. Intelligence. Sanctuary."
"For every contract you complete under $500,000, you earn one coin. Contracts between $500,000 and $1 million earn two. And so on."
Cole leaned in, his tone turning serious.
"Listen closely, Hunter. While the gold value is around $2,000, the street value is immeasurable. I've heard of black market bankers offering $50,000 or more for a single coin just to gain access to our network."
"If you are desperate for cash, you could sell it. But I strongly advise against it. Cash is common. These coins are power."
Hunter turned the coin over in his fingers.
So the lore holds up, he thought.
In his previous life, watching the movies, the economy of the coins had seemed chaotic. A drink cost one coin. Disposing of a body cost one coin. A stay at the hotel cost one coin. It didn't make economic sense—unless you realized the coin wasn't money. It was a token of social contract.
It's not about the price, Hunter realized. It's about the membership.
The fact that outside forces were willing to pay $50,000 for one just proved how terrified the world was of the High Table.
The High Table isn't hiding from the governments, Hunter theorized as he pocketed the coin. The governments know. They've tried to infiltrate it. And they failed.
The High Table has become a global superpower that sits in the shadows, too big to fail and too dangerous to touch.
"I'll keep it," Hunter said, looking up at Cole. "I have a feeling I'm going to need more of these."
Cole grinned.
"That you will. Now, let's get you fitted for your suit. A gentleman shouldn't work in denim."
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