Chapter 01

Chapter 01

This Mission Will Self-Destruct… Eventually

The message didn’t self-destruct in five seconds.

It just sat there.

Major Kofi Adeyemi stared at the encrypted tablet on his kitchen table while his kettle screamed itself hoarse in the background. The screen glowed with that familiar IMF blue—clean, confident, foreign. The kind of interface that assumed electricity was a guaranteed human right.

Good morning, Major Adeyemi.
If you are reading this, you have been selected.

Kofi sighed.

“Ethan Hunt would already be running,” he muttered. “Or hanging from something expensive.”

He tapped the screen.

The briefing unfolded like a well-rehearsed lie.

A neighboring African nation—name redacted, borders blurred—had become a playground for a corrupt president, private militias, and foreign contractors who smiled too much. Elections were ceremonial. Protesters disappeared. Money flowed upward and outward.

Objective: Destabilize the regime.
Secondary Objective: Ensure a “people-led transition.”
Support: Classified.
Authorization: Rogue.

Kofi laughed once. Short. Dry.

“Ah,” he said to the empty room. “So we’re overthrowing a government now.”

The kettle clicked off. He ignored it.

The word ROGUE pulsed at the bottom of the screen like a dare.

Every IMF officer knew what that meant. No clearance. No extraction. No apology if things went wrong. You succeeded quietly or failed permanently.

Ethan Hunt had lived in that space. Thrived in it. Turned it into legend.

Kofi scrolled down.

Recommended framework: HUNT PROTOCOL.

He rubbed his face.

“Hunt Protocol,” he repeated. “Of course.”

The Hunt Protocol assumed three things:

Technology would work.

People would behave predictably.

Time would obey deadlines.

Kofi had spent twenty years learning that Africa respected none of those.

He imagined Ethan Hunt in his spotless briefing room somewhere in retirement, probably fishing, probably still outrunning helicopters for fun.

What would Ethan Hunt do?
Kofi asked himself sarcastically.

Ethan would accept. He’d nod. He’d say something inspirational. He’d sprint.

Kofi scrolled further.

Local support networks unavailable.
Airspace unreliable.
Political deniability critical.

“Unreliable airspace,” Kofi scoffed. “That’s a polite way of saying the runway has goats on it.”

His phone buzzed. A message from his commanding officer.

GENERAL MENSAH:
Have you seen it?

Kofi typed back.

KOFI:
Yes.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.

GENERAL MENSAH:
It’s an honor.

Kofi stood up.

The tablet continued glowing, waiting for loyalty.

“I didn’t train my whole life to become a ghost,” Kofi said aloud. “I trained to protect people.”

He imagined the aftermath. Regime collapse. Power vacuum. Warlords. Foreign interests smiling wider than before. Another country blamed for “not handling democracy properly.”

Ethan Hunt would improvise his way out.

Kofi would be blamed for the mess.

He picked up the tablet, walked to the sink, and placed it carefully beside the kettle.

“Mission briefing,” he said calmly, “this message will not self-destruct.”

Then he shut it off.

Two hours later, his resignation letter hit military headquarters.

No drama. No explosions. Just facts.

By sunset, Major Kofi Adeyemi was a civilian.

By midnight, three unmarked vehicles were parked across the street from his apartment.

Kofi peered through his curtain, chewing roasted groundnuts.

“So,” he said quietly, “this is where Ethan Hunt would jump out the window.”

He sat back on his couch.

“I’m going to make tea.”

Outside, someone knocked—politely.

Very un-IMF.

Kofi smiled.

The impossible mission had already begun.