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I do not own either of the Mission: Impossible series or any of the characters therein. I receive no compensation or other tangible benefit from this story and no copyright infringement is intended. I am just a fan who enjoys taking the team out for an adventure every now and then. Please read and review!

Chapter 9

"Thanks, Shannon," Grant acknowledged. "We'll give him a little time to get settled, then Hank will give him a call."

Grant turned to Jim. "So tell me about Ross," he prodded.

Jim shrugged. "I met him about ten years ago - we ran a dozen or so missions together," he began. "Security was his specialty. Professionally, he was an excellent agent. Personally, he just couldn't keep it together."

Jim frowned. "It wasn't a secret that his life fell apart while he was with the IMF. First, his wife left him, then he started drinking and gambling. Too many debts led to bankruptcy, and too much alcohol caused him to get sloppy in the field. Eventually, the IMF relegated him to desk duty."

It was Grant 's turn to frown. "But I don't understand what all that has to do with you."

Jim shrugged again. "I always thought he was a little jealous of me," he ventured.

"Because you were a team leader?"

"Because I kept it together."

"But is that enough to make him want to kill you?"

Jim's bright blue eyes met Grant 's. "I don't think he hates me exactly," he answered quietly. "I think he hates everything IMF stands for."

The door opened, and Max walked in.

"How's Sam?" Jim inquired.

"He'll be fine," Max answered. "The bullet wasn't very deep. They're stitching him up and are going to keep him overnight for observation but he should be released in the morning."

"That's good news," Jim smiled. "Sam is a good man. We've run a mission or two together."

Grant smiled. Who hadn't Jim worked with? he wondered absently to himself.

"If it hadn't been for him, I'd have taken a bullet to the head," Max muttered with a slight shudder, still clearly shaken by the day's events.

Grant reached over to lay a hand on Max's broad shoulder, saying nothing but watching his friend intently until Max finally flashed him a small grin. Only then did Grant relax slightly and turn to Jim.

"McClain should be in place by now," he observed. "Time to give him a call."

"It's about time you showed up, McClain!" rumbled Ross when his colleague finally reached the office twenty minutes later. "We've had some excitement this morning. Did you get my message?"

"No, what message?"

"That guard who started yesterday...Potter?...turned out to be a problem."

"A problem?" McClain repeated, still not quite with it.

"Yeah. Same outfit as Patterson."

"So what did you do about it?"

"He's locked up in the shed with Patterson...for now. Waiting for their boss to show up."

"Maybe I should go check on them," McClain suggested, and started toward the door.

"That won't be necessary, Mister McClain," Nicholas as Stoya responded quickly. He couldn't have McClain going to the shed and realizing that Max and Sam were gone and both of their officers were trussed up. "I just checked on them and everything is fine."

"Right," McClain acknowledged, and changed direction to walk towards his office. Nicholas breathed a sigh of relief and resumed his patrol.

Nicholas' strategy while undercover as Stoya was to keep as low a profile as possible. To his pleasant surprise, that hadn't proven too difficult. McClain and Ross seemed to each be caught up in their own affairs and barely spoke to one another or him.

On his desk, McClain found a fax from his contact at the FBI. A quick glance at it, and he understood just why Hank Simpson wanted his help so badly. The man was damn good with money; specifically, cleaning other people's money and making incriminating evidence disappear. But a years-long covert criminal investigation had collected a mountain of information against Simpson - enough proof to put him away permanently. And it was all stored on the FBI's criminal database.

As if on cue, the telephone rang.

"McClain here."

"Mister McClain, this is Hank Simpson. We met at the Silver Star last night?"

"Ah, yes, Mister Simpson. I was just reading this fax that our mutual friend sent over this morning."

"Then you understand why I am desperate," replied Jim.

"Yes, I do," affirmed McClain. "But you know that the type of service you require...it won't come cheaply."

"I understand that, Mister McClain," answered Jim, "but without it, I am finished. How much money will you require for your services?"

"Five hundred thousand dollars," answered McClain smoothly.

"I can have it together in two hours," Jim responded without missing a beat.

"It will take Mister Mitchell less time than that to do what he needs to do," boasted McClain, "and, of course, we will provide proper verifications that the deed is done."

"Shall we meet at noon, then?" Jim suggested, throwing a glance at Grant, who nodded in confirmation.

"Noon," McClain agreed. "My office."

Jim clicked the receiver once to break the connection, then dialed his contact at the IMF. He gave a classified security code, and then advised his contact that Preston Ross was the IMF double agent.

"Give us till 11:30, then cut his access to the IMF database. We'll take care of the rest."

Once Jim ended the call, he smiled. "In less than two hours, both McClain and Ross will rue the day they messed with my team."