He and John had known each other for a long time.
Ethan didn't believe John could be the sort of man he now suspected, but this mission came from Theodore himself. That made it—statistically—about eighty percent credible.
Ethan stared toward the bedroom door and felt a twinge of embarrassment. He didn't want another mission, but he still couldn't drop the shape of being an agent. There was always that gap between him and ordinary life; he never fully belonged to it.
"Julia, when I finish this mission I'll come back and marry you," he said, more to steel himself than to promise.
He'd made up his mind. He would accept.
The phone on Ethan's desk buzzed.
"Hello?"
"Is this Mr. Ethan Hunt?"
"Yes."
"This is SF Travel. You've been selected for a complimentary trip to Morocco."
Ethan's face tightened. That phrasing—the travel agency—was their contact signal. Theodore had guessed right; John had reached out to him.
Ethan splashed water on his face, pulled on a jacket, and walked to a corner convenience store. John was already there.
John nodded when Ethan stepped in and pretended to browse the shelves. "Thanks for coming, Ethan."
"I'm getting married," Ethan replied, guarded.
"Congratulations," John said softly. "Listen... I'd rather you didn't, but I'll respect it if you refuse. Family comes first."
"Cut to the chase, John. What's happened?"
"A large-scale weapon, codename Rabbit's Foot, was lost a week ago. It leaked from inside the Agency—an insider—and the trail leads to an arms dealer, Owen Davian. I need you to go get the Rabbit's Foot back."
John set a bag of potato chips in Ethan's hands—an old, clumsy gesture—and left without another word. He knew Ethan's character: he'd promised before, and he would go.
If Ethan returned the weapons to Theodore, John would go to the Middle East and broker his own deals. It wasn't that John didn't trust Owen—he wanted a personal layer of insurance. If the weapons ended up in the Middle East, the opportunity for an operation—a war—would follow. John wanted to ensure that possibility existed.
Ethan left the store with the weight of it on him. Driving to the house, he frowned. Who should he believe? John had been his friend for years. But Theodore's seed of doubt had been planted.
To learn the whole truth, Ethan would have to go to Morocco and talk to the mercenary group the CIA had arranged with—The Round Table. He told Julia he was heading out on business and messaged an old colleague to look after her. He wouldn't leave her exposed.
⸻⸻
Two days later.
Cole returned to Morocco with Christmas, Simon, and Dade. The rendezvous point hadn't been exacted in a message—only a public square—so they waited.
At the largest plaza in Marrakesh, Cole slid on holographic contact lenses. The identity of Theodore's contact could be anyone; the lenses would filter the crowd.
Three minutes passed. The overlay pinged. An old man feeding pigeons on a bench was flagged.
Cole recognized him through the HUD—of all people, it was Ethan Hunt.
"Simon, see the old man over there? Pass him our meeting marker," Cole said, pointing.
Simon nodded and stepped out of the Humvee. Hood up, mask on, he drifted through the square without drawing attention. He passed the prearranged signal to the old man—subtle Morse—then melted away.
Ethan, head bowed, heard the pattern in the pigeons' cooing and looked up. The signal had gone unnoticed by everyone else. The man who'd passed it was already gone.
Ethan frowned. Whoever delivered that code had been sharp and quiet enough to slip him a message without breaking cover. If that person could detect him while disguised, this mercenary team was not ordinary.
No wonder they'd taken Rabbit's Foot.
With the meeting place set, Ethan left to prepare. He wouldn't walk into the rendezvous naïvely. He wanted to see what the Round Table could do.
Ethan drove to a suburban warehouse and waited for his team.
Five minutes later a Hummer rolled in. A large Black man, a compact mixed-race woman, and a pale, wiry white guy stepped out.
The big man was Luther—Ethan's old partner and a consummate field agent. The woman was Jane, newly promoted, lethal and practiced in seduction and marksmanship. The white man was Declan—master of disguise, infiltration, and surprise.
Luther pulled Ethan into a bear hug. "How you been?"
"Good," Ethan said, the brief smile genuine. Retirement had taken some of the light out of him; seeing his old crew returned it.
"What's the mission? Why the vague orders?" Jane asked, curious and direct. They didn't deploy without a brief.
"Tonight we meet a mercenary team," Ethan said. "You'll see the objective then. For now: I want to know their strength."
"Mercenaries?" Luther's voice carried a quiet edge. "You sure we're not walking into something nasty?"
"These people aren't simple," Ethan answered. "We don't know their employer or their full capability. Be ready."
They all laughed—half bravado, half nerves—then settled into the routines that made them efficient. They'd trained to move together; they trusted one another.