"Ethan Hunt," Makarov sneered. "I bet you're wondering why the CIA agents turned on you."
The spotlight had shifted. Avril stood silently at his side as Makarov spoke with theatrical flair. Ethan, ever stoic, said nothing.
Makarov, dissatisfied with the silence, continued monologuing, "It's simple. We obtained the CIA's entire roster in Turkey. From the moment you contacted them, everyone you met was ours. As for the original CIA agents..." He gave a mock sigh. "Let's just say—they were very brave."
Damn it.
Owen cursed silently. Everything was unraveling. Clearly, Makarov and the White Mask had joined forces—and their target was the nuclear core.
It seemed the IMF team had set up a sting, using the plutonium as bait to lure out Makarov. And it had worked—too well. They'd found him... only to end up as the real targets. Owen suspected the entire nuke-buying plot was a double-bluff: Makarov probably never had the materials to begin with. It was all a ruse to get the CIA to bring the plutonium to him.
Now Ethan and his two teammates were each staring down the barrel of a gun. Owen's frustration burned. The IMF's recklessness had backfired, and he was stuck in the middle of it.
"Stop wasting time—kill them and let's get out of here with the nuke," Avril cut in sharply. She'd had enough of Makarov's dramatics. Her instincts were sharp; she knew better than most how dangerous agents like Ethan Hunt could be if given even a second's opening.
"Villains always die from talking too much" wasn't just an internet joke—it was a hard lesson burned into the muscle memory of every operative.
Seeing that Makarov was about to give the kill order, Owen knew he couldn't wait any longer. As much as he resented the IMF's actions, letting them get gunned down wasn't an option. Besides, with them alive, his own chances of escape were a lot higher.
"Don't move!"
In one sudden motion, Owen snatched the gun from Chikalyev's waist and pressed it directly to Makarov's temple.
Time froze.
Nobody had expected Pavlovich—their own nuclear expert—to suddenly turn traitor. Almost half the surrounding weapons immediately turned on Owen, but he didn't flinch. One hand held the gun steady, the other raised the decryption device.
"Tell your people to drop their weapons," he said slowly and clearly, "or I'll shoot you and destroy this device."
Makarov's jaw clenched. "Pavlovich, do you know what you're doing?"
"Perfectly," Owen replied, eyes hard. "Now move it. Ethan, what the hell are you waiting for?!"
The last part was directed at Ethan Hunt. But before Owen could finish, a cold sensation gripped his spine—a sixth sense screaming at him. Instinct took over. He launched into a backward roll just as a sniper round cracked into the spot where he'd stood.
A sniper!
Owen didn't pause to dwell on it. He rolled hard and fast toward the nuke container, grabbed the case, and sprinted.
From a rooftop sniper nest, Glaz fired off a few more shots, but Owen somehow weaved through them all. By the time he lined up another, Owen had vanished into the crowd of Makarov's men.
Owen fired twice, dropping two men blocking his path. Bullets pinged off the nuke case on his back—metal slapping metal. He'd correctly guessed that the container would be armored; most devices involving plutonium were built with maximum security.
He'd turned the case into a makeshift bulletproof shield. Behind him, Makarov's furious voice roared, "Cease fire! No one fires!"
Afraid of detonating the nuke or destroying the vital decryption device, Makarov's men hesitated. That split-second hesitation gave Owen all the advantage.
He didn't waste it. Two more quick shots took down nearby threats. With the nuke on his back, he bolted toward an exit path.
"Stop him! Zheng—!"
A woman's shout rang out. A blur of motion cut in from the side. Owen instinctively raised his weapon—too late. A foot struck it clean from his hand, and another kick came spinning toward his chest.
He recognized her instantly: Zheng Anshun, Avril's right hand, the combat expert who'd escaped him multiple times before.
Owen twisted at the last second. Her kick hit the nuke case instead of his torso. He used the momentum to roll away. But in the chaos, part of his silicone mask tore off, exposing a sliver of his real face.
No time to fix it. He sprang back up, head down, arms pumping.
"He's not Pavlovich! Get him!"
A voice shouted behind him, and everything exploded into motion again. Zheng and several of Makarov's guards took off after him.
Meanwhile, the center of the compound remained a standoff. Ethan and his two teammates were still surrounded—each with three rifles pointed at them.
"Recall your men!" Yuri barked, storming toward Ethan without a trace of deference. As he got close, he pulled something off his own face. A layer peeled away—and underneath it was Makarov.
Ethan's stomach dropped.
It all made sense now. The man he'd been negotiating with wasn't Makarov—it was Yuri in disguise. The real Makarov had been posing as one of his own soldiers the entire time, blending into the ranks.
No wonder that sniper hadn't hesitated to shoot. From their perspective, Owen was just another expendable asset.
And who the hell was he?
Makarov had no idea who Owen was—just someone interfering with the operation. But Ethan couldn't say that. If he admitted he didn't know Owen, Makarov would realize they had no leverage left—and he'd kill them.
"Recall. Your. Men," Makarov repeated, his voice ice.
Ethan scrambled for an answer. But Makarov was done waiting. With no hesitation, he turned and fired three times—bang, bang, bang—into Benji's chest.
Benji dropped.
Luckily, he was wearing body armor. It hurt like hell, but he was alive.
"Damn it! I told you—I don't control him!"
Ethan's eyes were bloodshot with rage. But he didn't move. He couldn't risk it.
Time slowed to a crawl. He stared into Makarov's eyes, searching for some hint of mercy. None came. But then—something shifted.
Makarov exhaled. "Fine. I believe you."
He turned and gestured at Ethan and his remaining teammate. "You two—go find the nuke. He stays as collateral."
Ethan bristled. "You have forty-eight hours," Makarov added. "Tick-tock."
(End of Chapter)
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