The tension in the train carriage was thick enough to choke a man. Ethan Hunt stood like a coiled spring, his eyes darting between the semi-conscious Benji and Jane on the floor and the man holding them at gunpoint. His hand was already inching toward the concealed holster beneath his jacket—a move he'd practiced ten thousand times—when a voice broke the silence from the corner of the room.
"Evan?"
The voice belonged to William Brandt. The analyst looked as if he'd seen a dead man walk. His brow furrowed, his tactical posture wavering as he stared at the dark-haired operative sitting calmly on a crate.
Evan didn't lower the weapon immediately. He let the moment hang, his Lv.MAX shooting instincts mapping every heat signature in the room. He knew Brandt. In the fragmented memories of his predecessor, Brandt wasn't just a suit from headquarters; he was a former field agent who had been benched after a mission went south. They'd spent more than a few nights in a dim D.C. dive bar, drowning the ghosts of their profession in cheap bourbon.
"What the hell are you doing in Moscow, Evan?" Brandt asked, his voice a mix of disbelief and wary relief.
"The Secretary is dead," Evan replied, his tone as flat as a dial tone. He flicked the safety on and holstered his pistol in one fluid motion. "I just received the high-level burn notice. Ghost Protocol has been signed and enacted."
The air seemed to leave the room. Brandt slumped slightly, his expression darkening. "Ethan and I... we were in the car when it happened. We were right there."
Evan stood up, smoothing the lapels of his suit. "Then you've got the worst luck in the intelligence community, William. Which, considering our line of work, is saying something."
He walked over to Jane and Benji, offering a hand to each. He helped them up with a strength that caught them off guard—a lingering remnant of his recent 8-point Constitution upgrade. "My apologies, folks. Truly. But I have a personal rule about being held at gunpoint: I don't like it. Consider that a very aggressive 'hello.'"
He turned to Ethan, extending a hand. "Agent Hunt. Evan Cross. Just call me Evan."
Ethan didn't take the hand immediately. He looked at the stranger with the piercing gaze of a man who had been betrayed by almost everyone he'd ever worked for. He looked at Brandt, seeking a silent confirmation. Brandt gave a curt, somber nod.
Only then did Ethan shake. His grip was firm, testing Evan's resolve. Evan met it with the steady, unblinking confidence of a man who knew exactly how many ways he could end the room.
Before the introductions could devolve into a deposition, Evan stepped into the center of the carriage. He knew this mobile command center better than they did. He pressed a recessed circular button behind the main display screen. With a hum of precision engineering, the screen slid down and flipped ninety degrees, locking into a horizontal position like a tactical briefing table.
"Who are you people?" Jane asked, her voice tight as she glared at Brandt and then Evan.
Ethan stepped in to manage the friction. "This is Benji Dunn, technical systems, and Jane Carter, field ops. And this..." he gestured to the analyst, "is William Brandt. He's an analyst from the Secretary's office."
Jane's eyes narrowed. "An analyst? Great. We're being chased by the FSB and we've got a librarian with us. And you?" She looked at Evan.
"IMF-CIA Joint Chartered Liaison Officer," Evan said. He pulled a black metal card from his pocket—the matte finish absorbing the blue light of the carriage. It was etched with a nano-coating: the IMF's globe on one side, the CIA's bald eagle on the other. "But for the sake of brevity, let's stick with Evan."
Brandt frowned. "Liaison? Evan, your file says Senior Field Agent. When did you get moved to the Joint Charter?"
"You know the protocols, Will," Evan replied, sliding the card into the console's reader. "Need-to-know is the only thing that keeps us alive. My file is redacted for a reason."
A holographic display bloomed from the table. The computerized female voice—the same one from the phone booth—echoed through the car. "Agent Confirmed. Maximum Authorization Enabled."
Evan snapped his fingers, the sharp sound echoing like a gunshot. "Listen up. The President has officially signed the Ghost Protocol. As of thirty minutes ago, the IMF no longer exists. We have been disavowed. No satellites, no safe houses, no black-budget supplies, and zero backup."
He leaned over the table, his eyes scanning each of them. "The five of us and whatever gear is in this rolling junk heap are the only remaining operational assets of the IMF on the planet. And per the Joint Charter, I have ultimate oversight authority during this transition to ensure the mission is either completed or terminated."
The silence that followed was heavy.
"The mission either succeeds and clears your names," Evan continued, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble, "or it fails, and you vanish. Permanently. The CIA won't bring you home; they'll bury the evidence."
The team exchanged looks of grim realization. Brandt cleared his throat, trying to bridge the gap. "I've known this guy for three years, Ethan. He's a cynical bastard, but he's not a traitor. He doesn't shoot his own."
Evan let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh. "Of course not. If we fail, I'd rather you all retire to some beach in the Maldives where the CIA can't find you. Much less paperwork." He stepped back, gesturing to the screen. "Ethan, you've been on the ground. You know the players. You take the lead on the tactical phase. I'm just here to make sure we don't blink."
Ethan didn't hesitate. He stepped to the console, his mind already three steps ahead. He pulled up a grainy video of a middle-aged man with sharp, cold eyes.
"The IMF identifies this man as Kurt Hendricks," Ethan began. "Nuclear extremist. Code name: Cobalt. He believes a global nuclear conflict is a necessary 'reset' for the human race. He was seen leaving the Kremlin today with a nuclear launch device."
He swiped the screen, bringing up more files. "Two days ago, a contract killer named Sabine Moreau murdered our agent in Budapest and stole the Russian launch codes. Intelligence suggests she's checking into the Burj Khalifa in Dubai in thirty-six hours."
"Marius Wistrom, Cobalt's right hand, is already en route to Dubai," Ethan continued. "To use the device, Hendricks needs those codes. He's sent Wistrom to buy them from Moreau."
Ethan looked at Jane and Benji. "Hendricks is the ghost we're chasing. But Wistrom and Moreau are the keys. If we lose them, we lose the world. We have to stay invisible. If the Russians or the CIA catch wind of us, Hendricks slips away forever."
"So, what's the play?" Jane asked.
"Wistrom and Moreau meet in thirty-six hours," Ethan said. "We intercept the exchange. We swap the real codes for fakes. We let Wistrom leave, thinking he has the prize, and let him lead us straight to Hendricks."
Benji's eyes lit up. "Simple. We steal the real codes and leave a souvenir. Jane, you play Moreau. You sell the fake codes to Wistrom. We track him, find the big bad, and go home heroes."
Brandt leaned in, his analytical mind poking holes in the plan. "And how exactly do we get the codes from a world-class assassin like Moreau?"
"We take her out," Jane said instantly.
"Yeah, take her out," Benji echoed, then hesitated under Ethan's stare. "But... quietly. Very quietly."
"Quietly?" Brandt scoffed. "You're talking about a woman who dropped a veteran agent in Budapest without breaking a sweat."
"She's a professional," Benji stammered, feeling the weight of the room. "I'm just... I was just brainstorming. Don't take me literally."
Ethan remained silent, his eyes fixed on the photos of Wistrom and Moreau. His voice, when it finally came, was a razor-edged command. "We can't touch Wistrom. He's our only bloodhound."
"Understood," Benji muttered.
Ethan's gaze shifted to Jane. "And we can't touch Moreau either. If she doesn't show up to that meeting, Wistrom bolts. The deal has to happen. It has to look real."
Evan, who had been leaning against the far wall observing the team's dynamics, finally spoke up, his voice cutting through the debate like a cold wind.
If you like it please give power stones.