Luke Hobbs stepped into the dim light of the safehouse, his massive frame barely fitting through the doorframe. He was holding a glass of raw eggs and protein powder, looking entirely too massive for a room filled with delicate hardware.
"You're going to click it, aren't you?" a voice boomed from the shadows.
Shaw smudged his thumb across the enter key, deleting the local trace and sending a corrupted ping back to the Romanian facility to buy them time. He stood up, adjusted the cuffs of his bespoke Italian jacket, and grabbed a pair of flashbangs from the desk. "After you, Big Foot."
"They're rebooting the system," Shaw realized, his voice dropping an octave. "The techno-terrorists didn't die with Brixton. They just went into the cloud."
"It’s Romanian for 'Gifts,'" Shaw muttered, clicking the file. "And my sister doesn't give gifts unless they explode."