Title: Higher Stakes

Chapter title: Gateway to Oblivion

Summary: A breach in the IMF sets Brandt up against a past enemy. It is a dangerous game, and the price of losing may not only cost Brandt his life, but it could mean the end for the entire IMF.

Note: Before we move on to the next chapter, I would like to thank those who reviewed: Genevieve Kelly, Acrylate (Guest), Guest, Audrey Whyte, Sabsi13, Bam31 (Guest), casus17, Missy92, Gingerjam (Guest).
And also thanks to TheMostRandomOfRandomWriters , Genevieve Kelly, DevinBourdain, Moon Spirt, lisaelle, Sabsi13, Janechen88, I Still Believe In Heros, casus17, blackdog-lz, magicalmarvelousmrmistoffele es, Faustine68 and darkcelestial20 for following, both story and me as an author.

And lastly, thanks to kira2127, I Still Believe In Heros, Janechen88, Missy92 Faustine68 for adding my story to their favorite list.
Let me know if I forgot anyone, because that is not my intention! But thank you! Really! It means a lot! :D

Expect next update either Sunday or Monday next week … depends of how work and school will collide

Disclaimer: I do not own Mission: Impossible, or Jeremy Renner, which makes me very sad.

"If you look back too much, you will soon be headed that way"

Location: Unknown.

He knew something had been wrong from the minute they were at the airport. Not just 'he-was-compromised'-kind-of-wrong, but 'something-was-about-to-go-bad'-kind-of-wrong. It was usually the kind of wrong that followed Ethan Hunt, and not himself.

Of course he shouldn't have believed 'Agent Johnson', when he had asked him why they didn't take a direct flight to Washington. Of course he shouldn't have bought his, now that he was thinking about it, ridiculous excuse that it would have been too obvious, and too easy for his enemies to track if they did. He should have figured out something was fishy when, instead of taking a flight that flew into the States, they took a flight to South America.

Brandt didn't know how long he had been out. All he remembered was stepping out of the airport in Peru, being lead to a deserted car park, a blinding pain smashing into his head, and then nothing. They could have sailed to Africa for all he knew.

But it didn't matter where he was. Because he was alone. There was no team to come and pick him up, and no one waiting outside to door to come save him. Sure, someone should have noticed he hadn't checked in at IMF Headquarters, but that was all the information they were going to get. If someone went through the crap-load of trouble of posing as an IMF-team just to get him, they would know how to cover their tracks.

Johnson, who was standing in front of him, had lost his black suit in favor to a pair of dusty cargo pants and a tight-fitting Kevlar vest covering a green T-shirt. A gun was strapped to his hip and he wore fingerless gloves. The two men guarding the closed metal door behind, was dressed in a similar fashion, except instead of a small gun, each of them carried an automatic rifle.

"Did you sleep well? I hope the ropes weren't too uncomfortable," Johnson said, his smirk never leaving his face.

"I'll tell you when I can feel my fingers again," Brandt casually replied.

He was scared about what was about to happen, but tried his best to keep it from showing on his face. He feared deeply that it was indeed related to 'Operation Snowstorm', but he prayed to whoever was listening that it had all been a method to get him to cooperate easier. The last thing he needed was a repeat of that mission. It was one of the few that topped over his first mission with Ethan a year ago. It had gone to hell and back, and it was only by a miracle that he had made it out.

It wasn't something Brandt wished to repeat.

Location: Egypt.

Ethan had quickly filled in Jane and Benji to their current situation after he had hung up on the Secretary. It felt like some weird déjà-vu: They were alone again and couldn't count on the IMF's help. But this time there seemed to be so much more at stake than just national security. This time a friend's life was on the line.

The heat pressed down on everyone in the shack, but it was nothing compared to the tension that had spread after the Secretary's phone call. And the silence was even worse.

"So what do we do?" Benji asked, nervous about breaking the smothering silence. "We can't just sit here and do nothing, can we?"

"No," Ethan said from where he was standing leaned against a pillar. His eyes, which had been lost in thought, snapped back over to the Brit. "Benji, can you break into the IMF-files without getting caught?"

"You're kidding me right? Of course I can, just give me a minute." He typed viciously for a few seconds, let out a small curse about high-security, before a smile of victory passed over his face. "There you go. What are you looking for?"

"Find the one labeled 'Operation Snowstorm'," Ethan commanded, leaning in to watch the files spill out in Benji's screen.

"Got it," Benji said. He typed a few seconds before he frowned. "Okay, the file is encrypted. I can crack it, but it's going to take some time."

"Do it," Ethan ordered. A little thing like an encrypted file wasn't going to hold them back. "We need to know every detail about that op. Nothing is insignificant, every small detail is important. Leave no stone unturned. Our mission is getting Brandt back alive."

"Shouldn't the Secretary know about this?" Jane asked.

"The infiltration was an inside-job. Other than "agent Johnson" we have no idea who else is involved," Ethan said. "Right now … the Secretary can't trust anyone. And neither can we. Not even the Secretary himself."

"What do you want with me?" Brandt breathed. He was getting tired of the stirring contest he and Johnson where having. It had been a test of will the first half hour, but now Brandt had gotten restless and his nerves were getting the better of him.

"Patience, Agent Brandt. Good things come to those who wait," Johnson merely replied, looking as relaxed as ever.

"Good things, you say? You are going to untie me in a minute then?" Brandt said, the sarcasm concealed the little bit of hope that hung in those words. Of course, he knew, there was no way in hell that was going to happen. He smiled at his own words, nonetheless.

"I'm afraid that's too much to hope for," the imposter before him answered.

"Who are you?" Brandt tried a different approach.

"You shouldn't be focusing on me, Agent."

"And why not?" Brandt asked, his voice demanding. "You drag me across the ocean, and then expect me to just sit still like a good little doggie? That's not gonna work."

The man's eyes turned to daggers, and he stalked over to Brandt's chair and grabbed a fierce hold in his hair. Brandt winced as he was forced to look him. "I said, you shouldn't focus on me," Johnson hissed. "Instead you should be focusing on who paid me to get you all the way out here."

"Then tell me."

A fist landed on his cheek, snapping his head to the side. Then the hand returned to pull the roots of his hair again. "I already told you … Patience, Agent Brandt."

Johnson released his grip and walked back to his original spot; right in front of the metal door. The little act of violence he had just portrayed was wiped away. It seemed gone like the wind. Before Brandt stood the same person who had brought him here: Calm, collected and self-satisfied.

And it honestly pissed Brandt off. If there was any type of criminal he resented it was those guys. Those guys who expected the world to fall before them. Those guys who had no doubt in their mind they were made to rule. Those guys who switched between being calm and being impatient and violent. Unfortunately, it was those guys IMF usually dealt with. And he was starting to get sick of it. He was still waiting for the mission that wouldn't contain such guys. He was positive that someday it would come.

Johnson tilted his head, inspecting the bound agent before him.

Brandt stopped his train of thought, containing missions that probably wasn't going to happen, and met his captor's gaze. He was really growing tired of this patience game. "You still haven't answered my question. What do you want with me? Why am I here? Who are you really? Is there anything you can tell me about your little master plan?" he finally asked.

"It really isn't about you, Agent Brandt," Johnson smirked. "Or me for that matter," he added, thoughtfully.

Brandt frowned.

Almost like an answer to his unspoken question, the metal door got unlocked and the door opened. "He is right. It is about me," an accented voice said from the dark. Brandt froze. He could recognize that voice anywhere. He swallowed, trying to hide his fear.

A shadow moved from the door opening and walked into the room with such arrogance that Brandt didn't even have to think twice about who it was.

The man who was responsible for one of the most nightmarish missions he had ever been on, one that, at times, still haunted his dreams at night.

Jolan Kumaskoff, the head of the terrorist organization that called for 'Operation Snowstorm' and Brandt's prayers went crashing to the ground.

So who is this Jolan Kumaskoff? And what does he want with Agent Brandt? And what is 'Operation Snowstorm'? - All this will be answered in the next chapter … Most of it anyway :D

So show your support to Brandt, give him a hug and leave a review! It makes him feel a lot better! :D