The coordinates found in Alanna's phone led him to a desolate pit in the ground where the skeletons of an abandoned construction project stood rusted and crumbling.

His third scout up and down the vicinity yielded nothing extraordinary. There were no snipers lying in wait. He wasn't snuck up on, tranquilized, and thrown into the back of an armored van with the weight of a gun barrel pressed to his throat.

He imagined the armored truck veering off towards the water, tyres carving twin scars into the ground before rolling into submersion. Off the road, no rogue tracks could be found. In the distance, the pebbles along the Thames riverbank was visible as a thin, grey stretch.

The impromptu news of Lane's disappearance had arrived with little to no information, but the signal had blacked out here for a reason—or at least, that's what he had thought. As had the White Widow herself, evidently. The unconcealed surprise in her tone was evident when he called to inform her of his findings, or lack thereof.

"I... had surmised they were after something."

"Like what?" he had asked.

"You, of course," answered the White Widow. "And by sending you, I believed it would draw them out."

Straddling Roswald's Yamaha, Ethan stared at the patches of yellowing grass.

The plan was to make quick work of whatever trap had been set for him upon his arrival and personally deliver Alanna's package to the MI6. With the Syndicate's legacy reduced to nothing more than scraps of paper ashes, Ethan knew that the followers of Lane's fear-mongering delusion no longer had the structural foundation on which their unification could thrive upon. Any movement on their part would be sluggish, uncoordinated, and easily thwarted by someone of his caliber. With that being said, how was he to dismantle any ill-conceived attempt at resurgence when there was none to begin with?

There was a concept: perhaps the White Widow was lying. The notion had circled his brain like carrion crows throughout the entirety of his ride out to where he stood now. However, no matter how persistent it may have been, it couldn't beat the overwhelming presence of the other terrible thought—what if he was running loose?—continuing to ooze and fester at the forefront of his mind. Even the smallest imperfection left neglected on an astronaut's suit could lead to disastrous outcomes. Ethan wasn't about to let chance take the reigns over this one.

Any thoughts of returning by the end of the day were beginning to look like a childish fantasy.

From his knapsack, Ethan pulled out his old phone. The moment he powered it back on, it began buzzing furiously with dozens of text messages from Benji's number.

13:02
Found crack in multi-layer
encryption on Brandt's device.
With the right tools, might be
able to get thru.

13:27
Trevor has some gadgets.
I'll try him soon, couple days
maybe.

13:29
Assuming you'll be gone till
atleast then.

13:32
I wish I could do more.
Stay safe.

15:18
Your face is on telly. They're
calling you 'highly dangerous'
What is going on?

15:19
You're wanted for arson and
assault but they've also found
'records of illegal trade' under
your name. What you
mentioned before you left?

15:37
Where are you?

15:40
Tell me you're looking into this
right now and not jumping out
of buildings or whatever

15:49
Please be safe.

At some point, Benji had sent a photo attachment. It was a picture of the television in Benji's apartment. The mugshot from his time at the Moscow prison lit up the screen, grim and resolute.

There was little to no doubt when determining who was behind it all. Still, it made little sense. Desperation often propelled men towards extremities of all sorts; despite that, Lane's time was limited and his resources stretched thin. With his most recent failure to burn down Ethan's world, it was hard to believe that Lane would waste them both by throwing Ethan's name out under such petty charges. On the other hand, it would partly explain the cold shoulder they'd been receiving from the CIA. Whether Sloane truly believed it or not mattered little. If Ethan had to guess, Brandt and Luther were already caught in the cross-fire for being the most convenient targets they were, geographically speaking.

He could surrender willingly, allow himself to be taken under Sloane's roof, and correct the rumors from within. Defences could be produced easily by Benji, Roswald... and as much as he hated to admit, even Trevor. Certain things about the man still didn't sit well with him yet, but Lane's disappearance was the more pressing issue at hand, and it meant that he'd have to set his animosities aside, whether they stemmed from personal or work-related bias.

Another problem lay in the fact that he remained utterly clueless on what sort of false leads the CIA had on him. The Walker incident had damaged their morale and shaken the previously infallible image of their constitutional integrity. Taking chances were no longer a part of Sloane's professional repertoire either, and the likelihood of her willing to listen to whatever he had to say was slim at best.

Finding Lane was of paramount importance. Subsequently, any suspicion the CIA might be harboring against him and the IMF would be cleared.

He snapped a few photos of the location and brought the bike to life again.

-0-

Ethan made frequent stops along the way, checking all the nooks and crannies in which an escaped terrorist might find cozy. When his pocket buzzed, he was crawling out on his knees from an abandoned homeless refuge with daisies carpeting its caved-in roof. It was his personal phone. Brushing the filth from his hands, he took the call with renewed caution.

"I'm glad you picked up. I was half concerned you'd gone and tossed the poor thing."

"How did you get this number?" Ethan asked, knowing it was a futile question. Precisely why he did not expect to get such a straightforward answer, nor the details that followed immediately after.

"Your CIA admirers are rather... disappointed, shall I say? All I had to do was ask. Our encounter was brief, but Madam Sloane has made very clear her interests in your whereabouts."

"And as your employer, I assume she knows now."

"Don't worry about that," said Alanna. "This call is also secure, but not for long. Have you reached the extraction site yet?"

"No," Ethan answered, trying to piece together what was happening now. "Not yet. I'm about to leave."

"Plans have been changed. Going to Dartford will no longer help. Do not go there under any circumstances, Mister Hunt. Where is your technician?"

"Who—Benji?" Ethan said, alarmed. "He's back home, I—"

"For now, your safest bet will be to regroup with him. Stay out of sight; do not show your face in public until I say so."

"And why is that? You're the one who sent me out here!"

"I'm afraid there's no time. In about seven seconds, this call will become transparent to anyone from the CIA who tries to listen. I've done everything to warn you, Hunt. I'm sorry it has to be this way. For now, you must hide."

Not even a full second after the White Widow spoke her last syllable, two resounding beeps trilled out of the speaker. And then, the line was dead.

Ethan stared at the blinking timer on the screen, wet and dumbfounded. Out of all the cryptic warnings he'd received over the years, it wasn't the worst. There were smatterings of cues throughout that short spiel that he could use to extrapolate various things. If Sloane had been ignoring him, she definitely wasn't anymore. The extraction site in Dartford was now compromised, and there were forces searching for him that the White Widow had decided it best for him to avoid.

But if that force was the CIA, why would she think his life was in danger? Sloane wouldn't dare kill him, at least not yet.

His finger hovered over the first number of Benji's mobile. If these calls were being monitored, then surely anything he said would reach Sloane one way or another. Well, let her eavesdrop to her heart's content, for he wasn't about to admit to crimes he didn't commit.

He didn't know how far Lane's influences stretched this time around, but one thing was clear: going after two IMF agents was an expensive move and Lane was a figurative vagabond in terms of what he could afford. It was a relief to know that out of the two of them, Lane's real item of desire was Ethan. Lucky him, for Ethan would gladly offer himself up at a smashing deal, zero cost involved.

In any case, the less Benji knew, the better; Ethan couldn't have Lane's attention straying away from himself for even a second. But right now, he just had to make sure...

Benji answered on the first ring. "Please tell me you're alive," he breathed.

"It's me," Ethan assured, trying not to let the tremble in his hands seep into his voice. "Are you okay?"

"Christ." He sounded tired, but unharmed, which was all that mattered right now. "Yes, I'm fine. Look, Trevor has a work computer that has everything I need to get past any encryption or whatever bollocks metadata Brandt came up with to hide behind. If everything turns out, we'll have him by the end of it. Well, I'll try my best."

"That's great." That was, in fact, some of the best news he'd gotten in a while. Relief and excitement should have been the proper response. "I imagine he wasn't too happy about doing you any favours."

Benji scoffed. "Oh, 'course not. Some friend he is."

"When are you meeting him?"

"In a couple of days? I dunno, as soon as he stops being so jumpy about it. It's like he's afraid I'll stumble across his secret pornography file or something. What a bugger, always has been."

Ethan's throat decided to close uncomfortably with the taste of something bitter. Was it jealousy, or something else? "How did you convince him, anyway?"

"What, letting me borrow that monster of his? Quite easy, actually. I mean, it's gonna cost me a beer or twelve, but at least he's finally shut up about all that."

Ethan cursed, his heart sinking further. "Benji, I'm sorry."

"Oh, as if a bit of shitty booze is comparable to getting shot at by strangers on the road."

"I'm not getting shot at," Ethan protested, omitting the part about how he'd been almost disappointed by the fact. He looked around his deserted surroundings once more.

"Speaking of uncertain variables, what's that stuff on the telly about? It's all very terrible. You should've seen some of the photographs—buildings, just obliterated. They've even got witnesses."

"...I don't know." He loathed how easy it was to lie, even to Benji Dunn. "People can say anything if they've been paid or threatened. I'm on my way to look into it. Are you still home?"

"Sure, why?"

"Do me a favor and just... don't meet with Trevor before I get back." Ethan slowly got to his feet and trudged back to the bike. "Order in if you have to, but stay low. Don't go outside."

"But why? We need to talk to them! Where the hell are you, anyway?"

"I know. These are just precautions but I want to be safe. I'll figure it out," Ethan continued steadily. "Everything will be cleared up in no time, I swear."

"But just say—"

"Do you trust me?"

The answer came without a moment's hesitation. "Of course."

"I'm not going to let anything happen to you." That much was the undivided truth. "It's going to be okay."

"...Yes." A sharp intake of breath. "Ethan, I need you to know that I—" A pause that was too long, too silent for his panicked heart to handle. "God! It's so stupid; you've been gone for less than a day and you've done this far longer than I have, but my thoughts wander and I can't help it and I can't sit tight for one bloody minute—"

"Hey, hey," Ethan interrupted. "Slow down. It's going to be okay."

"Right—eugh, sorry. I'm all right. I just miss you a lot." The last words seemed to tumble out of Benji's mouth like a train wreck, but they were clearer than crystal to Ethan's ears.

"Benji." His throat tightened again, but with something much more familiar. "I miss you too, very much." So much, he thought, and so much more than that.

"Promise me that you'll look after yourself."

"Always." I wish I could tell you three simple words, but there's no way you'll ever say them back. "Remember, don't leave your apartment. But if you do manage to get hold of Will somehow... can you put me through?"

"Right away. I'll see you soon." It was a question, but not spoken as one, as if he was afraid of the answer he might get.

"See you soon," Ethan promised. He reluctantly ended the call. Despite Alanna's warning, there was still one more place left for him to visit.

-0-

When he slowed to a halt before his destination, it was growing dark.

Before him stretched a large warehouse in all its bleak-faced glory. Through the poor glow of ill-maintained LEDs, he discerned the logo of an aircraft painting facility. Across the massive parking space, not a single personal vehicle could be seen. Rows of forklifts sat untouched along the fence adjacent to a small, portable office building. The tip of a tower crane was just visible over the peak of the building on the other side.

There were two emergency exits on each side of the building, all locked from the inside. Added with the size of the aircraft gates, which were also shut tight, a stealthy maneuver into the facility was out of the question. He settled in front of one of the more manageable-sized doors and fired two clean rounds at the metal lock. The sound echoed for miles, and the door swung open in defeat.

A few emergency lights that were on the brink of death did little to illuminate the entire place, but there was enough to show him the way. Holding his aim directly within line of sight, Ethan ducked onto a grill platform that overlooked two Cessna's and an incredibly derelict 1960 Champion 7GCB with one of its floats missing. The stale, astringent smell of old paint hung in the air.

With each stride, his boots connected far too loudly with the grease-stained panels—ka-thunk, ka-thunk. Over the droning hum of the ventilation, Ethan strained to hear any signs of life.

He managed to count his steps to six when the flurry of gunshots crackled through the oppressive silence. Bullets ricocheted off the metal railings; angry sparks erupted before his feet and singed his clothes. One sliced past the side of his head—blood erupted from the gash like a hot fountain. Cursing, Ethan blindly launched himself off the platform and onto the Champion's left wing. The spray of bullets followed him messily as he went tumbling off the small aircraft. His ribs, which were still tender from before, screamed in agony when they took the brunt of the fall. Keeping flat, Ethan crawled behind the remaining float, choking and gagging.

There were voices now, yelling. About three hostiles were stationed in the western ceiling rafts—not as many as he'd feared, but still more than what his own ammunition could handle. It didn't take long for the shooters to begin their descent via rope. His face was drenched and dripping with blood. Flaming pain erupted in his chest with every drawn gasp, but he ignored it all. He steadied his hands on the float and took aim, listening hard to their feet hitting the ground. One, two, thr—

Bang-bang-bang!

Bodies toppled to the concrete floor before he could even think of pulling his trigger. Dumbfounded, Ethan looked around wildly for the sniper. Someone was dropping from the blades of one of the massive ceiling fans. Their face was swathed in brown cloth, the same color as the warehouse walls. Ethan hastily dragged his weapon towards the stranger, but then they raised a pistol out of nowhere and fired. The gun was immediately blasted out of his grasp and skittered off somewhere, out of reach. Ethan shouted in surprise, vaguely aware his finger was dislocated from the force with which he had been disarmed.

The stranger pounced on him like a lithe tiger, thighs locking his arms immobile. They reached up to pull down the mask and shades that concealed their face and—

"Oh, my God! Ethan?"

"We really gotta stop meeting like this," Ethan wheezed, grateful to breathe as soon as the weight lifted from his body. Holding his dislocated finger, he jerked it back into place with an audible 'pop'. He gratefully pressed the offered face cloth against the throbbing flesh wound on his temple, which stretched far beyond his hairline.

Ilsa Faust collapsed next to him and closed her eyes, releasing a stream of expletives that would've made a sailor weep. "All that blood in the dark... I couldn't see... of course, it's Ethan bloody Hunt. Why on Earth did I think—"

"Think what?" Ethan groaned, mopping his face with the cloth before unbuckling his knapsack. "Who'd you think I was?"

"Nevermind that. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." His eyes were stinging as he clawed through his bag for the field-grade medical kit "Shit."

"My sentiments exactly," Ilsa said dryly. "I thought you were supposed to be hospitalized."

"Yeah, well." He finally snatched the kit out of the bag. "Plans change." Beside him, Ilsa rolled her eyes and he didn't need night vision to know it.

"You have been debriefed, then."

"On what?" Pulling the pre-threaded needle out of the tiny slot with his only good hand, he began messily suturing the gash in his temple. "By whom? Because there's a lot of stuff going on that could use a good debriefing right now."

"Why else would we have crossed paths again?" she asked. "You're here for Lane as well."

"God, Ilsa." The needle hit a snag when he reached his hairline and he tugged at it frustratingly to no avail. "I think it's high time," he grit out, "that the idiots ordering you around finally realize how dangerous that man really is."

"Of course they understand," Ilsa said fiercely. "Every day he lives and breathes is a reminder to my government that he was born out of our own. They won't rest until Lane receives punishment from the very people he sought to betray—"

"I think he betrayed everyone when he tried to blow up a third of the world's water supply."

"He's a weapon, Ethan. There are safety precautions when handling dangerous weapons."

"And you're their safety precaution," Ethan concluded angrily. "No, to them you're an expendable pawn they can use to bait Lane behind the safety of their desks and chairs."

"I've spent far too long within close quarters of Solomon Lane. I've seen the atrocities he's committed. I know the risks just as well as you, perhaps more."

"That's exactly my point! You need to stop putting your life needlessly on the line like this. They're using you, Ilsa. There are times when it's best to call it quits—how can you be content with what they're making you do?"

"Because I am the only one in that insufferable agency who's capable of dealing with him," Ilsa hissed. "How happy do you think they are, having to bet everything on someone like me? They don't have a choice, Ethan! I can't believe I have to spell it out for you, considering all the times you and the CIA have been tied together in similar predicaments."

"The CIA? Sure, but you'd think after everything that happened in Kashmir, they'd start trusting me a little. Reinstatement, my ass." His laugh was acerbic and devoid of any mirth. " I'm not here because I was ordered to." Should you choose to accept it, whispered the White Widow's voice in his head. "I'm here because things have gone to Hell and I need to fix it."

Ilsa slapped his fingers away from the wound, picking up the needle to fix the haphazard mess that was his stitching job. "You fool," she said, exasperated, pulling the thread through with more force than necessary. "Lane belongs to the MI6 now; he is not your problem anymore. Why are you still so adamant on going after him?"

Ethan closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath while she worked on him. The weariness quickly sank into muscle and sinew, scraping at bones and reverberating in his skull. "I should have killed him." The nerves in his finger still wept imploringly for anesthetic. "Instead of turning him over, thinking of what's right or wrong... I should have just put a bullet in his head. Why didn't I do it?"

"Because that is not who you are." Ilsa spoke gently, with confidence. "Look at me." Ethan turned to see her studying him, knotting off the last suture and breaking the thread. She brushed wet strands of hair out of his eyes. "Are you all right?"

"I spent days rotting away in some tiny condo in London," he began. "All of our equipment is locked up, and I can't reach Will and Luther anymore. Then... I found out my name and money were used to smuggle Lane out of custody. Now I'm getting labelled as a public menace on TV." The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving nothing but exhaustion in its wake. "You say this isn't my problem anymore, but it still is. It always will be."

Ilsa's steady hand began applying antiseptic wipes over the fresh stitching, making him wince. "Oh, my. It wasn't really you setting those homes on fire?" she asked, mock-surprised. "Some of those buildings are relics, you know. Ancient."

It was Ethan's turn to roll his eyes. "Courtesy of Lane."

"But why?" Her astute gaze never left him, looking for answers Ethan could only dream of having. "I don't think anybody who matters believed any of it for a second. It's too convenient. Amateur. Why waste time on setting up something so meaningless?"

They'd come upon the very roadblock Ethan failed to bypass every time he ran this theory through his head. "Everything started happening when he escaped." A pathetic explanation if it could be called that, but it was all he had. "What else could it be?"

They sat in stony silence for a minute. Then Ilsa nodded to where the three bodies lay growing cold on the concrete floor. "I've been waiting in this warehouse since last night, looking for Lane, Apostles, anyone. And then these guys show up. They never noticed I was already here, of course. I wanted to see who they were waiting for; clearly, they were not with you."

"They must have been Lane's."

"No, Ethan. They're yours."

He gave her a scandalized look, but Ilsa was not smiling. She rose to her feet and approached the heap of fresh corpses. Ethan watched through the gap under the aircraft as she dug through one jacket pocket. She returned and tossed a badge into his lap. The blood-speckled crest of the Central Intelligence Agency stared up at him.

"O'Connell, Jamerson. Met him during a NATO assignment in Afghanistan. Up until ten minutes ago, he was the only active agent in the CIA with a prosthetic left foot. I recognized his gait straight away."

The White Widow had known. Her warning phone call came back to him in a rush. Do not go there under any circumstances... "They tried to kill me," Ethan said, feeling numb. "Sloane wants me dead?"

"Perhaps not dead. They would not have missed their mark so grievously," Ilsa stated. "Besides, you are notoriously difficult to kill—capturing, even more so. 'Severely incapacitate', was the likely objective."

"So what, she wants to cut off a limb or two, then drag me in for questioning?" No chances will be taken. Ethan stared open-mouthed at her. "We killed those men. That's not going to help my case."

"I killed those men," Ilsa corrected. "You played no part in what happened tonight."

"Sloane wanted to send me on a damn cruise!"

"You should have taken the offer," Ilsa said grimly. "At least you would've had a solid defence."

"I do have one," Ethan argued. "I was with Benji and... a couple friends of his." Friend: singular, he corrected internally, lip curling at the thought of Trevor. The only increment of comfort came from the knowledge that Roswald had promised to return to Benji's apartment and keep him company. He could only hope that Roswald's presence would dampen of rebellion against Ethan's promise and ensure Benji actually stayed put in his apartment. Perhaps Roswald might even tag along for Trevor's pub night, so that Benji would have someone there to help keep his wits together.

Ilsa's eyes thawed momentarily at the mention of Benji's name. "How is he?" she inquired softly.

"He's recovering," was all Ethan could offer at the moment.

"I'm glad. I never got to ask after..." She trailed off, unwilling to bring the horrific incident back to life with spoken words. Ethan looked away.

"Ilsa." He spoke quietly, imploringly. "I know we've never exactly followed the same agenda. But this is one mistake I cannot, ever, afford to make. Again."

Her forlorn gaze remained steadily on him. "Can we trust each other to cooperate?"

"If it means we get him. I know how important this is to you, too."

Ilsa sighed, defeated. "I haven't got much to offer," she said wearily. "From what I've gathered, there was a virus that overrode Lane's tracker output. Because of its long-range capabilities, the MI6 believe it was remotely installed, and likely designed to activate once the transport vehicle was geographically exposed."

"Another one of the Apostles, then?" Ethan asked.

"I can't say for sure. The source of the virus traces back to a man who has virtually zero ties with Lane and his followers." Ilsa pulled out a phone and began swiping through photographs of numerous faces. "It's probably a false trail to throw us off, purposely leading us to a random civilian with some technical knowledge." She stopped at one, and flipped the screen towards him.

Ethan had no drink to choke on, so he had to make do with his own saliva. "No. God, no—"

"What?" she demanded. "What is it?"

He leapt to his feet instead of answering, only to topple over immediately when his vision swam in triples. He collapsed heavily against the aircraft, narrowly missing a nose-dive towards the concrete floor. "What's happening?"

"Stop jumping around!" Ilsa exclaimed, grabbing his arm to steady his gait. "You've lost some blood and that was a nasty fall you took back there."

"I need to go," he groaned. "I need to go."

"Ethan, for God's sake!" Despite having her arms full with his weight, she still managed to shove the mobile in his face again. "Do you know him?"

"Yes." Spots danced in his peripherals and the sudden brightness made his skull ache, but nothing could have blinded him from Trevor's ugly visage marring Ilsa's phone screen. "Benji... I have to go back to Benji..."

"I think you might have a concussion," Ilsa said fiercely. "On top of that, you shouldn't even be out of the hospital yet."

"He's in danger!" Ethan shouted, fighting to no avail against her vice-like grip. "He doesn't know—"

"What use will you be to Benji if you're brain-dead, Hunt? Stop this right now!"

Ethan stopped flailing, breathing harshly through his nostrils. His blood was searing, and his emotions were a tempest of rage and terror.

"How do you know this man?" Ilsa asked once he appeared to collect himself, if only in increments.

"He's Benji's friend from university," Ethan growled. "He's a software engineer, or so he claims to be. How long as he been Lane's... Jesus, Ilsa, he's meeting Benji at a pub! We have to get back, now!"

"No, we can't!" Ilsa cried. "I don't know what they're planning, but the CIA are clearly hunting you down. They'll be waiting for you the moment you set foot anywhere near London."

"Sloane has eyes everywhere, it'll be the same no matter where I go!" Ethan pictured Trevor smashing a beer bottle over Benji's head, dragging him into the back of a filthy vehicle, his vile hands knotting ropes around Benji's... He shut his eyes tightly, gut roiling with nausea.

"It won't be the same," Ilsa stated calmly, tightening her hold around his arm for emphasis. "For now, you need to stay low. Just for a while, until they've all calmed down a little—"

"What good will hiding do?" Ethan snapped. "I can't achieve anything if I keep running away like you!"

The regret was instantaneous, even before the words fully left his mouth. It was clear Ilsa was exercising an immeasurable load of self control by not slapping him within an inch of his life. Her eyes were alight with justified fury. "What the hell is wrong with you, Ethan Hunt?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't..." His knees were sapped of their last strength and he sank to the ground. As the throes of mindless panic ebbed away, Ethan felt emptier than ever. He violently wound his fingers through his hair, skin pulling around the sutures Ilsa had painstakingly woven. "I'm so sorry."

Seconds trickled into what felt like ages before he felt the touch on his shoulder. When he dared to look up, he saw Ilsa kneeling before him. Worry and stress had creased the corners of her mouth, the space between her brows. She looked at him with a sadness that stemmed from things far beyond Ethan's impetuous outburst. His self-loathing burned with tenfold strength, despising the way he'd catalyzed such pain upon the woman who'd become one of the few, truest friends he'd ever known.

"You must stay strong," she murmured. "If not for me, or yourself, then for him."

"...Ilsa—"

"He means the world to you." It was no doubtful questioning. They were simple facts, and were stated as such. Like Julia, Ilsa did not sound surprised nor taken aback by this revelation. Ethan managed a stiff nod, once. Fear still held him back, as if Benji would perish the moment his thoughts leaked out into the world.

"He is a very capable agent," she said gently. "He is skilled, resilient, and very brave."

"Yes." Ethan was grateful for the hand that remained on his shoulder, grounding him.

"It will be okay."

Ethan swallowed thickly. "Ilsa, I never meant—"

"I know." Her lips quirked into the smallest of smiles. "Everybody knows Ethan Hunt to be a little bit bullheaded, a little bit of an arse. Both are true"—she grinned when he snorted—"but I also know that you love more deeply than anyone else."

"I want him to be happy," Ethan whispered, "and safe. But it's always too much to ask for."

Ilsa made no move to disagree, for she knew it was true. She squeezed his shoulder in one final reassurance before helping him stand. "Let's go to Basildon," she said with forced cheer. "There's an old safe-house there. It's been out of commission for several years, but it should still be functional. We can figure out a safe way to contact Benji after."

"...All right. How do we get there?"

She peeked over her shoulder to where the silhouettes of each aircraft hung above them. "You can fly one of these things, can't you?" she asked, somewhat sheepishly.

Ethan gaped. "They're not exactly the most inconspicuous modes of transport, Ilsa."

"...yes, of course I know—"

"I've borrowed a motorbike," he suggested instead.

"Will do," Ilsa said quickly, "but I'm driving."