At the base the next day, sunlight cut through the hangar shutters and poured across stacks of gold. Two hundred and forty tons — enough to light the entire bay in molten reflection. Every beam glinted off polished bars piled across the floor, hypnotic in its abundance.
Men moved carefully among the treasure, taking inventory. Even seasoned mercenaries couldn't help slowing their pace, eyes drawn to the sheer radiance.
The preliminary count was complete: total valuation — over sixty billion US dollars at current rates. Of course, gold was still a hard currency that needed laundering, conversion, and channels to move it. Even after taxes, fees, and black-market skimming, it would yield roughly forty-seven billion net.
Every member of the Round Table stood to walk away with no less than ten million dollars. The lion's share, naturally, belonged to Cole — Arthur in the field. No one argued. Without Arthur, none of this would exist.
With the gold secured and three days remaining before the agreed exchange with Theodore, the team could finally breathe. A sense of quiet satisfaction rippled through the base. Soon, the operation would close — and they could enjoy the calm that followed a clean extraction.
⸻⸻
United States — IMF Headquarters, Langley
John Musgrave's expression was grim. He sat in his glass-walled office, the hum of fluorescent lights washing over the tension in the air.
A message had just arrived through one of his embedded contacts inside the Department of Finance — confirmation that Director Theodore Brassel had reached a covert agreement with a mercenary unit known as The Round Table, led by a man codenamed "Arthur."
Two billion dollars. That was the rumoured figure the IMF would pay to recover a stolen bioweapon codenamed Rabbit's Foot.
The deal would finalize in three days — in Morocco.
John leaned back in his chair, jaw tightening. If Brassel succeeded, it would undo every manoeuvre John had made behind the scenes to secure his own power. He couldn't allow that to happen.
"No," he muttered. "They don't get to win this."
He encrypted a file, routed it through an offshore server, and sent it to Owen Davian's broker — Irving, a black-market arms trafficker. The message was simple: Intercept the transaction. Take Rabbit's Foot before it's recovered.
John Musgrave pressed send, sat back, and exhaled slowly. If things went as planned, Theodore's entire operation would burn before it ever reached home soil.
⸻⸻
Undisclosed IMF Black Site — Washington D.C. Sub-Level
Deep underground, Director Theodore Brassel entered a secure compartment known only to a handful of operatives. The room pulsed with the quiet hum of mainframes and the blue glow of encrypted terminals.
Inside, Ben Dunn, a systems analyst from the Hackers division, worked furiously at his station. "Director," Ben said, not looking up, "we finally caught something. John Musgrave just sent a secret transmission, but it's layered in triple encryption. I can't fully intercept."
Brassel nodded, his expression unreadable. "Keep it contained," he said. "And not a word to anyone. I know John — he's careful. He won't slip easily."
Ben swallowed and nodded.
Theodore moved deeper into the command bay, activating a private link. The secure screen flickered to life — Arthur's face appeared on the other end.
"The plan's moving cleanly," Brassel said. "Musgrave reached out to Davian. They'll attempt to hit us in Morocco. We'll let them come."
Cole's tone was even. "And your backup?"
"I'll deploy a shadow support team under IMF cover. You won't see them, but they'll keep you clear."
Cole nodded once. "Fine. But you mentioned a second favour."
"I need your help bringing in Owen Davian," Brassel replied. "When the deal goes down, my people will appear to seize Rabbit's Foot. You'll let them — but make sure Davian takes the bait. Once he shows himself, we close the trap."
Cole's eyes narrowed. "You're expecting Davian to show up in person?"
"He will," Theodore said. "John will make sure of it. He still believes Davian's his ticket back into the fold."
Cole leaned back, the faint hum of the comm link filling the silence. "Then we have a deal. One condition — what's my cut?"
Brassel blinked. "Still chasing money? Didn't you just move a fortune out of the desert?"
"Gold isn't currency," Cole said. "Can't exactly buy guns with bullion."
Theodore gave a thin smile. "I'll have the Agency handle liquidation. Market value, full conversion."
"Then we're square."
The line cut. Brassel exhaled and immediately rerouted a new channel.
⸻⸻
Encrypted Transmission — to Ethan Hunt
On a secure satellite uplink, a digital package deployed across hidden Agency nodes. Ethan Hunt, retired IMF agent, received it at his secluded home outside Seattle.
In bed beside him, his partner slept soundly as the phone on his nightstand began to glow red. Ethan opened his eyes, alert in an instant. He rose quietly, crossed to his study, and pulled a specific book from the shelf.
The spine split open, revealing a compact holographic device. The room filled with blue light as the Agency briefing unfolded before him.
"Ethan Hunt. A bioweapon codenamed Rabbit's Foot was hijacked last week. The operation was financed by Owen Davian — black-market trafficker, highly dangerous. The asset has since fallen into the hands of a mercenary unit known as The Round Table, led by operative Arthur."
"The IMF has reached a covert cooperation deal with them to recover the package from Morocco in 72 hours."
"Your mission is not retrieval. Your mission is deception. You will stage an extraction alongside Arthur's team, make the exchange appear real, and expose the traitor — Agent John Musgrave — who has allied with Davian."
"Lure Davian out. Capture him alive."
"John will contact you soon. Do not refuse. Rendezvous with Arthur in 48 hours. Your support team will be in place."
"This message will self-destruct in five seconds."
White smoke curled from the holographic device and dissipated into the air.
Ethan Hunt stood motionless for a moment, the weight of old instincts pressing back into him. He'd thought the game was behind him. But some missions, he knew, never truly ended.