Mae govannen everyone!

so sorry for the long lull- life had been busy ;)

Thank you again to KingInTheSouth for taking the tine to leave a comment in this story of mine ;) (is your username a play on Game of Thrones, perchance?)

please be so kind as to tell me what you think! Leave a review if you wouldn't mind ;)

Disclaimer: I own none of these characters

Namarïe!

CLASSIFIED IMF INFORMATION.

THIS DOCUMENT IS REDACTED.

IMF WILL NEITHER CONFIRM, NOR DENY THE INFORMATION WITHIN THIS FILE.

IMF Headquarters

Washington D. C.

USA

2015

Assistant Director Grant Richards was having a bad day.

Not that he was at liberty to say so. Everyone would simply refer to that Syndicate operative that had been apprehended and ask why the hell was he complaining. And if he mentioned that that was exactly why he was having a bad day and/or complaining...well.

Best left to the imagination, that one.

CIA Director Erica Sloane had been informed of her agent's infidelity and misadventures. The woman had wasted no time disavowing her former employee, and proclaiming that the man was a traitor. IMF had been instantly handed the reins to his fate.

That was cold...even for Grant.

After the initial interrogation, the Syndicate agent had mentioned in brief why he had turned his back on America: That they only caused pain; poisoning all that they touched.

A little too close to the truth?

...perhaps.

Grant had to admit though, the Syndicate operative- August Walker- told a story that rang of truth. Even after their 'interrogator' had been a round with him, he stuck to his tale:

The team leader had forced his fellow agents to abandon him, and the Syndicate had saved his life; therefore earning his loyalty.

Grant was struggling to blame this man, when he knew- had he been in that position- he would probably have done the same. Turned his back.

"You have nothing more to say?" he asked, checking his wristwatch. Damn it, were were Dunn and Hunt?

August Walker let out a harsh bark of laughter, letting his head fall back against the steel of the chair he was cuffed to. "Not to you, no."

"No one?"

The turncoat said nothing. Blood was splattered across his face from a cut near his hairline. A bruise lurked on his jaw, half hidden by the neat beard.

"Not even...Ethan Hunt?"

That got a reaction. Walker's mouth thinned into a hard line, dark eyebrows knitting together. Grant continued,

"You two were friends at one stage, weren't you? At the CIA academy?"

"That was a long time ago," said Walker flatly.

"He mourned, you know. When he had thought you'd died." Grant fixed the captive with a hard stare. Walker held it balefully. "Told us that an old friend of his was gone...said you were the only one too loyal to fake your death."

"Sounds like Ethan," said Walker with a wince. "Although, I doubt he grieved for long. Ethan's not like that."

"No. He gets along with the job," Grant said in agreement. "Which is why we're lucky to have him."

"Hmmm," was Walker's reply.

"Walker, when Hunt gets here, you had better answer all questions given to you. If not...I'll be forced to allow Harrow another round with you."

The stony-faced 'interrogator' said nothing- turning and leaving the room- but there was a nod from Walker. The man was probably in more pain than he let on. Harrow could be rather heavy-handed at times.

"Good. I'm glad we understand each other."

"Oh, we do." Walker's deep, gravely voice was a low rumble. The Syndicate operative closed his icy blue eyes. "You think that Hunt will have the skills to get it out of me. All because we were friends once." A small, mocking smile crossed Walker's lips. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but its been a long time since we last saw one another. That doesn't mean we still consider each other friends. People change with time." He opened those cool ice again. "I doubt he'd even recognise me."

"Well," came another voice. "I certainly beg to differ."

"You took your bloody time, Dunn," admonished Grant as he and Hunt entered the room. The latter and Walker had both locked gazes, almost as though they were communicating telepathically.

No longer friends, yeah right. Who were they fooling?

It was Hunt that finally spoke.

"August."

"Ethan."

Silence, again. Grant waited for his agent to go on, but all Hunt did was frown at him.

"Sir, has Harrow been in here?"

Grant detected disapproval in his agent's tone. He knew that Hunt wasn't fond of Harrow. Not most were, but the man had his uses.

"If you're referring to his 'attack dog', " said Walker with a cold bite to his smile, "then yes."

"You, shut up," snapped Hunt at the captive, who let his head fall back with a sigh.

"Yes, Harrow was here for a short period of time," said Grant, wondering if the tension growing in the room could be cut by knife yet. "And it depends wholly on Walker's cooperation weather he will be back or not."

Hunt scowled, studying Walker who wisely remained silent. "Can I have a moment alone with him, sir?" His voice was hard. Cold. "A half-hour or so?"

Walker tilted his head, face growing grim.

"He's all yours." Grant ushered Dunn from the room. Finally, something seemed to be going right today. "Call if you need help."

"Yes, sir."