Night fell hard over the outskirts of Casablanca.
Arthur sat with Ghost, Christmas, and Dade inside a matte-black SUV parked outside an unfinished high-rise.
The skeleton of concrete and rebar loomed against the desert sky, the wind moaning through hollow floors.
No civilians for miles.
Perfect for a meeting—or an ambush.
Inside the vehicle, silence reigned.
Each man checked weapons and watched the perimeter feed flicker on Dade's tablet.
They were waiting for the IMF's team—Ethan Hunt and his people—to make their move.
⸻⸻
Outside, at the perimeter
Ethan Hunt crouched beside his team's vehicle.
Luther Stickell unpacked a compact reconnaissance drone, its rotors whispering to life as it scanned the building.
"There are four of them inside," Luther murmured, watching thermal silhouettes bloom on his tablet.
"One each should be manageable, right?"
Ethan gave a slight nod. "No mistakes."
They moved—Ethan, Luther, Jane Carter, and Declan Gormley—circling the structure with quiet precision.
Luther positioned two remote-mounted light machine guns near the south wall, linking them to his wrist computer to draw attention once they breached.
⸻⸻
Inside the building
Dade's screen flashed red.
"Arthur, check this out—something just came online two hundred meters out."
Arthur leaned forward. "Talk to me."
"It's a remote weapons protocol—microchip-linked system. Looks like it's controlling automated machine guns."
"Probably running on thermal targeting," Ghost said flatly.
Christmas grunted. "They're trying to soften us up before they come in."
Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Can you hijack it?"
Dade smirked. "Already halfway in. Their encryption's clean, but not my clean. I'll switch their target acquisition when they pull the trigger."
Lines of code danced across his display.
Seconds later, four heat signatures appeared: southeast perimeter, rooftop, interior stairwell, and one stationary outside—the controller.
"Four of them," Arthur said.
"Pick your marks"
"Roof's mine," Ghost replied.
"Southeast's mine," Christmas said, cracking his neck.
"I'll handle the controller," Dade added with a grin.
"Then I'll take the one inside," Arthur finished.
They exited silently, splitting off through separate entry points.
⸻⸻
Perimeter – Luther
"Targets are stationary," Luther said over comms.
His fingers hovered above the control pad. "I'll light them up to draw fire. Then you take them out one by one."
He pressed the trigger.
"BRRRRRT"
The twin machine guns spat fire—but the barrels swung mid-burst, re-targeting not the building, but his vehicle.
Rounds shredded across the armoured glass. Sparks erupted.
"Shit!"
Luther ducked under the dash as a digital skull flashed across his screen.
YOU'RE OUT.
The system was hijacked. His heart sank—he'd been counter-hacked.
Reaching for his comm, he stopped, exhaled.
"Guess I'm out," he muttered, surrendering to the simulation as his monitors went black.
⸻⸻
Interior – Declan
Gunfire echoed outside.
Declan moved up the third-floor stairwell, MP5 raised.
His comm crackled but went silent.
He crept to the landing—then a heavy boot exploded from the shadows, kicking him square in the chest. He crashed back through a half-collapsed wall.
A figure dropped after him—broad-shouldered, wielding a combat knife that gleamed in the fractured moonlight.
"Let's see what you've got," Christmas grinned.
The corridor erupted into close-quarters chaos.
Declan fought hard—knife versus pipe, hand-to-hand—but Christmas fought like a bar-brawler crossed with a soldier, every strike bone-breaking, efficient. He slammed Declan against the wall, disarmed him, and drove a fist into his ribs until the agent collapsed, winded.
⸻⸻
Rooftop – Ethan Hunt vs. Ghost
Ethan scaled to the fifth-floor landing, boots barely making a sound.
A sudden gust sliced across him—a whisper of motion.
Instinct kicked in. He twisted aside as a blade slashed the air where his throat had been.
He ducked behind a pillar, heart hammering.
Whoever this was moved like a phantom.
A bullet whined off concrete inches from his ear.
"I've crossed paths with IMF agents before," Ghost called, voice low, calm.
"What's your name?"
"Ethan stayed silent, scanning the angles."
Ghost moved first—knife reversed in grip, eyes locked. The two collided with brutal force. Ghost's strikes were surgical, each movement flowing into the next: elbow, knee, choke, disarm. Ethan countered with defensive training—redirects, leverage—but Ghost's momentum was relentless. He transitioned seamlessly from close-quarters grappling into a weapon disarm, flipping Ethan's pistol clear.
When Ethan went for his sidearm again, Ghost anticipated it, slicing a clean line across his wrist—not deep, but disabling. Pain flashed. Ethan backed off, breathing hard. Ghost pressed forward with a sweep, driving him into a support beam.
"You IMF boys getting soft?" Ghost said coolly.
Another takedown. Ethan hit the floor hard, disarmed and pinned. Ghost secured him with zip-cord, tightening it with practiced efficiency.
Ethan exhaled—frustrated, not broken. Combat wasn't his strongest field. He excelled at infiltration, deception, the long game. But against an SAS-trained killer, he was outclassed in brute combat.
Bound and breathing hard, he could only listen to the quiet clicks of Ghost reloading above him as the fight elsewhere in the building continued.