|Sighs|

 

|Drinks|

 

…

 

A word, once given, cannot be taken back.

 

…

 

You taught me this. A lesson in trust.

 

…

 

|Sighs|

 

It’s zero three hundred...One hour before departure.

 

…

…

 

I dislike going blind. Especially into the enemy’s home ground. You know this. 

 

…

 

The timing is too convenient. A burst transmission on the same day as the fall of the dummy Executioner? 

 

Hunter, the Ringleader, trapping them in Novum Sambir. Persica implied Executioner had returned, but not in the position to press her assault. Perhaps she had communicated her failure to Hunter. 

 

If so, Hunter may have allowed this transmission to be sent, as bait, a trap for M4A1.

 

…

 

I had seen M4’s expression when she heard from AR-15. It was that of trepid ecstasy. She was eager to return to the field and reunite with her. A different person from her usual demeanor. Closer to when she was in combat but...not quite. 

 

Executioner may have uncovered her character and communicated this to Hunter...or Hunter herself had deduced AR-15’s value to her and acted upon it upon hearing of Executioner’s defeat.

 

…

 

Was the Dummy Executioner meant to buy her the time to lay down this trap?

 

…

 

|Drinks|

 

…

 

The study of Novum Sambir confirmed the weaknesses of the UAVs. 

 

Dummy Executioner’s forces appeared like a mirage given substance...the drone was unable to detect their rallying until they reached a specific density. 

 

…

 

We had run into this same trouble with Novum Sambir. We can perceive the border blockades but not the border patrols, at least not immediately.

 

We had to zoom in the view and monitor that particular grid until something came along. 

 

Five Scouts, loose formation, barely perceivable.

 

…

 

The UAV’s cameras cannot penetrate concrete roofs either. 

 

…

 

Pierre told me any concealed enemy will appear on the Tactical Map as soon they are discovered by the T-Dolls. Information routed from all participants of the Echelon to the command equipment via the Team Leader through the Zenner Network, he said. 

 

...

 

|Drinks|

 

...

 

He had intended to provide assurance. Yet, knowing the fog of war is in effect in the enemy’s home ground...his confidence brings no comfort. Would have preferred sending in the scouts, get the lay of the land but AR-15 may not have the time. 

 

…

 

Home ground, close quarters…

 

There is no worse place to combat Hunter than this city. 

 

The streets...too open. Excellent place for her to leverage her numbers advantage. Jaegers, Vespids, Prowlers, Scouts…

 

Dinergates...

 

The alleys? Perfect hunting ground for the Ringleader. Easily blocked off by the Guards.

 

…

 

Guards. Shield-bearers. They exist within the Sangvis repertoire. 

 

Block passages, box us in various potential killing fields scattered all across the city. 

 

Grenades will be indispensable, as would the snipers. However, such wasted time may prove fatal. 

 

…

 

M4A1 as bait. Draw Hunter out of the alleys and into the buildings. 

 

Not ideal, considering M4’s penchant for self-sacrifice. Yet...our best option for dealing with the Ringleader.

 

Trickery will need to be employed. Feints. Something unorthodox. I had prepared as best as I could, to utilise any conceivable tactic to bring Hunter low...though...the Ringleader’s ability to see through the eyes of her minions could complicate matters. 

 

Rest is up to the T-Dolls. And to Fortune.

 

…

 

|Drinks|

 

Heh. Relying on fickle Fortune. 

 

...

 

Zero three twenty…

 

I wonder if Ingram and 416’s tutoring went well. Papasha, Sudaev and Sten had missed the timing of their grenades last I saw them. FAL barely passed the mark. At least they were able to control the dummies but…

 

...Load management issues, said 416.

 

…

 

I am departing. Watch over us, Captain.

​

​

​

0330

 

Infernal beeps. Helianthus over the holo-projector. Visage...stern...but weary. Hair...straight...like freshly pressed clothes.  

 

“Commander Yilmaz. Your psychiatrist didn’t exaggerate on your sleeping habits.”

 

“...Vice-Director Helianthus.”

 

The voice croaked. Dry...like the dust outside.

 

Vodka bottle...three-quarters empty. The holographic map...distorted. Its light diffracted against the glass and its transparent content. 

 

“...You are early.”

 

Silent. Stern gaze. Statics. She sighed, removed her monocle.  

 

“You aren’t making it easy for us.” 

 

She wiped the lens. 

 

“We have reviewed your after-action report and M4A1’s memory log.”

 

“So you have discerned my intention.”

 

Lens perched on her nose

 

“You are planning to rescue the remainders of Team AR, and you will be departing by...” Pulled up her left sleeve, glanced at her metal watch, “...zero-four-hundred, twenty-eight minutes from now.”

 

“You wish for me to stand down.”

 

A subtle twitch. Her frown lifted slightly, a hint of amusement. “On the contrary, HQ is giving you the go-ahead.”

 

The severeness returned, “On one condition.”

​

​

​

0610

​

“She wants us to capture Novum Sambir,” Lev uttered slowly, savouring every syllable.

 

Tablet scraped the tongue, its powdery residues washed down by flooding water. The neck creaked, the chin bobbed up and down. 

 

The Day Guard Captain looked about. 

 

Sudaev, Olaf and Leopold were digging foxholes. Papasha, aboard her Power Loader, unloaded the dummy containers under Pierre’s supervision. The members of Team SVD, Team M4A1 and Team HK416, scattered among the collection of opened ammo crates, were checking and packing their equipment in preparation for the long day ahead. 

 

416 had finished packing her kit and had started work on G11’s. She stoically tucked the long, black beams,G11’s magazines, into her magazine pouches just beneath her disheveled coat. If she had detected FAL’s disgruntled glare, she showed no indication.

 

FAL, having given up willing 416’s demise with her gaze alone, returned to filling Papasha’s pack with grenades and drum magazines. Sturmgewehr, doing the same with Sudaev’s bag, glanced at both of them, then released a weary and likely nervous sigh. 

 

“With only this lot?” Lev conveyed his misgivings. 

 

Another slow nod.

 

He gulped down his coffee. 

 

“Three echelons into the city, one to remain here. Our plan hasn’t changed.” 

 

“We aren’t going to find Hunter with just three three-fifth strength echelons, Fox.” Lev drank his coffee again. “Novum Sambir may not be Kyiv or even Lviv, but it is still a big enough place to hide a Ringleader.”

 

Concrete blocks rising over the morning haze. Unpainted prefabs, sterile and without character, quite unlike the science-fiction bizarreness of the Sangvis combatants. 

 

M4A1 visible behind the command tent’s flap, by the Tactical Map, engrossed in the study of the surveillance print-outs. The ringing of the comms mast, still being erected by David, did not disturb her. 

 

“AR-15 will lead us to Hunter, or she will come to us.”

 

“Go to M4, you mean,” Lev interjected. 

 

Another slow nod. 

 

Lev raised his thermos cap to his lips. As he sipped on his steaming beverage, he blinked. His gaze hung beyond my right shoulder. 

 

A chopping sound in the wind. Faint, distant, rapidly closing. 

 

The dry soil clumped against the right side of the boots, forming a minuscule dune. 

 

A brown-and-green Mi-17, coming from the South. Not Siskin 1 or Siskin 2. They would have come from the north. 

 

“Are we expecting visitors?” Lev asked with a whisper. 

 

“M4’s dummy delivery.” 

 

Lev arched his brow. 

 

“We are instructed not to proceed with the operation until its arrival.”

 

He raised his thermos cap and silently sup on it. A sudden gale, a rising whirlwind of sand and dust. His beverage spilt onto the dusty ground. He coughed, gagged and spat violently. 

 

Clenching, gagging throat. Sand and dirt, tumbling up the nostrils, clawing at the false eyes. 

 

A creak. The helo’s landing wheels had touched the ground. Rotors died, the storm subsided. 

 

Skorpion almost collided with the true arm. Ingram jogging close behind. 

 

The side-hatch cracked open and slid aside. A pair of silver pigtails styled like pincers bobbed and swayed as their owner hopped out..

 

“Cetin! Look away!” 

 

Firm tug against the left sleeve. 416, Sten, and the others were gawking. 

 

“It’s Crabby!” 

 

“What did I ever do to you?” 

 

MG4 and FNC running towards us. FNC’s path was direct, MG4’s circuitous, rounding the hill-slope. 

 

“Crabby, quick! Hide your eyes!” 

 

“What? Why?” The child-like voice was sharp, confused and outraged. 

 

“Just do it!” 

​

“Skorp, her eyes aren’t yellow, they are orange,” said Ingram with a half-giggle.

​

“Not taking chances!” 

 

“What? What’s wrong with my eyes? Why are you turning your Commander away from me?”  

 

Another voice, calm yet warm, like a summer breeze. “Come now, CZ2000, behave yourself. We haven’t the time for petty squabbles.”

 

“But Commander!” 

 

“The gentleman can’t launch his operation without our cargo. Help Type-80 unload it, please. I will speak to the gentleman about Skorpion’s rudeness on your behalf.” 

 

A brief silence before CZ2000 spoke again, “O-okay, Commander.” 

 

“That’s a good girl.” 

 

FNC brushed past. Pitter-patters behind, two sets of footsteps. A soft thud. “Hey, Fleur!” The Commander greeted.

 

“Commander, it’s good to see you.” MG4. She sounded glad, yet forlorn, like a lonely child.

 

...more affectionate than a lonely child. 

 

“It’s only been two days,” the other Commander replied softly. MG4, or Fleur, purred softly. “Let’s catch up later. I still have business with Skorpion’s Commander. Oh, there you are, Mary.”

 

“Nivy, Nivy. Where’s my chocolate?”

 

“Get MG4 away!” Skorpion sounded alarmed. “Cetin can’t see the yellow eyes!” 

 

“Orange!” CZ2000’s indignant shout, from the direction of the rear hatch. 

​

The other Commander, ignoring the outburst, inquired calmly, “Is there any particular reason your commander cannot see yellow eyes?”

 

“Post-traumatic stress disorder, Sir,” replied Lev, after clearing his throat. “He has a past with these ‘yellow eyes’, I believe.” 

 

“You believe?” 

​

Another moment of silence. He was likely mulling over the revelation. “Fleur, please leave us for a moment. I will catch up with you later.” 

 

Another set of pitter-patters, fading towards the helo’s rear hatch.

 

“Nivy.” FNC. “What about my chocolate?” she pleaded.

 

“Later, Mary. We’ll talk later.”

 

“...Okay.” 

 

FNC brushed past us. Slumped shoulders, heading towards the ammo crates. 

 

“Now then. Can I speak to your Commander, face to face?” 

 

Skorpion craned her neck towards the direction of the rear hatch, then shrugged. Her grip slackened, her fingers peeled from the true wrist. “O-okay.”

 

The spine straightened, the flattened dune regrew. The other Commander leaned against a black cane. With a casual smile, he showed me his right hand and greeted, “Rear Commander Klein Washington.”

 

A loud bang from behind the helo. Ringing jeers from the fuselage. “Crabby, I thought you said you can handle this?”

 

Not MG4, not CZ2000, must be Type-80.

 

“It’s not my fault it jammed!”

 

“Is something the matter?” 

 

Klein’s right hand hung awkwardly.

 

“...My right is false. It cannot feel.” 

 

His gaze fell on the false arm briefly. A crinkle by his lips, a hint of a smirk. “Shaking with the left is a sign of distrust but, considering your circumstances…” 

 

He grimaced. His right leg sagged alarmingly. He righted himself, his left firmly gripped by the true hand. 

 

A warm, friendly smile.

 

“... I’m making an exception. You are?”

 

“...Cetin Yilmaz.” 

 

Fleur, CZ2000 and a doll with spectacles, Type-80, peeked from behind the helo’s rear hatch. 

 

Commander Washington grunted as he slid his cane into his right hand. Another grunt, he released his grip and righted himself. The smile returned, “My friends call me Nivy. I will be honoured if you would be counted amongst them.” 

 

“...I see.” 

​

​

​

0730

​

“M4 to Command.” 

 

The blue blips emerged from the midpoint between the north and north-eastern corners of the AO. 

 

No red blips had appeared to meet them.

 

“We have arrived at Epsilon.” 

 

Sudaev and Ingram dummies, two of each, slid behind the traffic barricades. 

 

Red blips entered their visual cones. Three Scouts, followed by another two, hovered past them, towards the east. 

 

“Encountered enemy patrols. Five Scouts. Letting them pass.”

 

As soon as the scouts winked out of the dummies’ visual range, the dummies vaulted over the barricade. The mainframes followed quickly after. Then, HK416’s, G11’s and MG5’s, the rest of Team HK416, entered the feed and hurried after them. 

 

Following behind was Team SVD, then Team M4A1.

 

“We are continuing towards our objective.” 

 

Team HK416’s blips took the right fork, closely followed by the other two Echelons. 

 

Holographic projection dimmed. Wavering sunlight invaded the tent. “Frontline duty hasn’t lessened Mary’s appetite,” said Commander Washington, with a gleeful chuckle. 

 

The true fingers twitched. Polymer at the last three digits, metal pressing against the first. 

 

“If anything, it made her ravenous.”

 

Lev’s grip tightly wound around the wrist. The pistol sat on the Tactical Map.

 

“Was it necessary to attack Skorpion?” 

 

Washington’s friendly smile dimmed. “I don’t think forehead flicks count as an attack.” He sighed. “You should discipline your T-Dolls better, Cetin.” 

 

He tapped on his command tablet. 

 

“Besides, she did tackle Fleur two days ago.” 

​

The blue blips approached the first two concrete blocks, they would soon enter the East District. The two buildings, five stories high, emerged in the feed like rising pylons. 

 

“She’s a delicate girl, as you have noticed.” 

 

“About your second helo, just arrived…”

 

“It brought the Carcano sisters…” Washington made another series of taps. “...and additional dummies.” He glanced over his tablet. “You know about the Carcano sisters, right?” 

 

The name didn’t ring a bell. 

 

Noticing my ignorance, he grinned and added, “I knew Ceno was lying when she claimed they were world-famous.”

 

“I’ve only joined Grifon a week ago.”

 

His grin faded slightly, then took on a sly quality, “With all the waves you are making, it’s easy to forget you are a rookie.” 

 

A weight in the lungs. A sigh. “I never asked for this.” 

 

He smirked. There was a hint of ruefulness behind the lopsided grin. “Nobody asked for a Sangvis hazing, yet…” He nudged his stick against his bad foot. “...here we are.”

 

He returned his attention to his tablet. Blue blips spread out, a cluster in the front of the formation, a second cluster in the middle, the last at the rear. Team HK416, the frontmost group, kept its distance from the red blips, not too far as to lose sight of their quarries, not too close to be detected. Team SVD followed close behind, their rear guarded by Team M4A1.

 

“...About these sisters…”

 

Washington lifted his eyes away from his device for a moment.

 

“Carcano M1891 and Carcano M91/38. Cano and Ceno. Cano’s the pink one, Ceno’s the purple one. They are snipers.”

 

He made several taps. “Do pardon their rudeness. I insisted they get to their assigned stations right away.” 

 

“...Are these the names you gave them?”

 

“They called themselves that.” 

 

“M4 to Command, we have arrived at Delta Five without incident.”

 

Ingrams and Sudaevs filed through the gap between razor-wire fences and took cover behind a pair of pockmarked armoured vehicles. One of the Ingrams shot a glance at the corpse, clad in body armour, tangled upon the razor wire. 

 

Washington diverted his attention towards the Tactical Map. “How are your echelons?”

 

“Keeping low.”

 

“We are keeping pace with the Sangvis Scouts,” M4 interrupted the conversation. “Avoiding confrontation for now.”

 

Ingram, keeping watch from behind the disabled armoured vehicle, tsked aside. She looked antsy and tensed, tapping her foot constantly. 

 

“Despite her distaste.” 

 

Washington cracked a grin. 

 

One red blip, two, all five winked out. Ingrams sprung to the next set of cover behind the vehicle, through the gap in the blockade, followed by Sudaevs. 416, G11, MG5 and their dummies took their place. G11 poked at the tangled corpse, but was quickly met with a swift slap from 416. Receiving an all-clear from Ingram and Sudaev via the Zenner, they then filed through the gap and into an open yard nestled amongst the L-shaped apartments. 

 

Corpses, all clad in the same body armour as the tangled one, littered the yard. Mouldy vest, sun-bleached helmets, it was clear they had been abandoned to the elements for many months. One of them, propped against the wheels of another armoured vehicle, had a faded SF logo painted on his chest. 

 

“Sangvis Ferri Security,” Washington remarked, frowning grimly. “Their dolls turned on them. Never stood a chance.” 

 

Sten of Team SVD cautiously stepped around another corpse which blocked the road. 

 

“Seems you have gotten them to practice radio discipline,” Washington noted.

 

A shrug. “Credit belongs to HK416 and MG5.”

 

Upon sensing Sturmgewehr and Nagant’s arrival, Sten looked towards them, pointed at the corpse and said something. Her gestures were that of confusion. After a brief exchange, Nagant leaned towards the cadaver for a closer examination. She sprung back. The headphones gave voice to her surprise. 

 

“Nagant to all! The corpses here are riddled with bullet holes! Do we have other Grifon dolls in the area?”

 

SVD, who was scanning the blocks flanking her echelon, dropped her gun, strode towards Nagant and slapped the back of her head. “Team SVD to all, ignore the silly Babushka.” She looked at Nagant, her posture suggesting a glare. SV-98 peered her eye away from her scope to look at her team Leader. 

 

“Nagant, Sten, Sturmgewehr, leave the bodies and move on.” 

 

SVD gave one more look to the blocks, then nodded at SV-98. 

 

Team SVD exited the yard, and Team M4 took their place. Papasha and BAR looked uncomfortable to be among the dead. Papasha looked at FAL; FAL patted her shoulder. They shared nods and continued on. BAR, seeing this, remarked aloud, “Hey, FAL! What about me? Hey!” 

 

She hurried after them as they continued to the next block. 

 

“They must have seen bullet holes on the remains of Sangvis Ferri Security,” Washington commented, still wearing a grim expression. 

 

“Not burns?”

 

He shook his head. “No. Not burns. Only the newest generation of Sangvis T-Dolls use handheld energy weapons, and we are fighting them.” He regarded the armour-clad corpse. “The dolls assigned to Sangvis Ferri Security are of the previous gen.”

 

“...I see.”

 

The columns of armoured vehicles soon gave way to a deserted street. Private carriages left rusting, paint peeling. Mouldy, cracking luggage strewn along the empty sidewalks. Some of the doors were ajar, creaking in the wind. 

​

Just ahead, the towering antennas of the telecoms building loomed. 

​

​

​

0820

​

SVD knelt behind the front of a ramshackle bus, SV-98 atop a car’s hood, watching the telecoms building through their scopes. 

 

“M4 to Command, humanoid figures behind the windows. Jaegers...I think. We don’t have a count on their numbers, yet.”

 

“Ingram to all.” Two Ingrams and two Sudaevs distributed between curbs and alleys. A low giggle lurked under Ingram’s tone, interspersed between her phrases. Five red blips entered Team HK416’s visual cones, gliding towards them. “The Scouts are coming back.” 

 

The giggle was of predatory anticipation.

 

“M4 to all Echelons, clear the street and stay in cover. Let them pass.” 

 

The Scouts glided towards them at the pace of a walking T-Doll, weaving through the gaps between three armoured vehicles and two machine-gun positions. The T-Dolls were stiff, tensed, like tightly wound springs, as they awaited the machines’ inevitable arrival.  

 

One of them rose suddenly over the curb, which had hidden Ingram. It stopped, shuddered and turned towards the submachine-gunner. Ingram pounced without delay and drove her dagger deep between its garnet visor and obsidian carapace.

 

Jaeger fire struck Ingram and the Scout, disintegrating their heads. It came from one of the windows on the fifth story of the telecoms building.  

 

Muzzles exploded, catching the Scouts in their crossfire. 

 

“M4 to all Echelons! Keep to the plan!”

 

Smoke erupted from where the other two Ingrams and three Sudaevs hid. Team M4 and Team SVD advanced under its cover. They split into uneven halves. One took the left, the other, the right. SVD’s and SV-98’s slammed their shoulders against the armoured vehicles, along with the Nagants. A Nagant pointed towards a window, an SVD took the shot. 

 

Team M4A1’s feed tailed M4’s mainframe unit into the right apartment, after Papasha, FMG-9, BAR and FAL. The corridor was littered with detritus and limp Sangvis carcasses. They swiftly ascended the stairs towards the highest floor, entered the frontmost room and took their positions. BAR mounted her gun and fired upon the first sign of Jaeger fire.

 

Upon hearing the BARs’ fire, Team SVD disengaged and rushed into the apartments. Five minutes passed between their repositioning and the first crack of rifle fire. 

 

The two Ingrams lobbed their smoke grenades towards the gaps between the armoured vehicles and machine-gun nests. Once the plumes reached sufficient volume, Team HK416 charged towards the door. 

 

G11 stumbled towards 416. “Gewehr-Elf!” shouted 416 as she slowed slightly. “Schnell!”  

 

Gunfire shattered the glass double-door, producing a gap for Ingram’s grenades to soar through. Light gave way to darkness. The blast from a Vespid’s weapon blinded the feed. 

 

A loud crack of crumbling concrete and shattered glass. 416’s grenade had dislodged five Vespids from their perches on the mezzanine. G11’s dummies opened fire without delay, tearing through the remaining Vespids’ flimsy covers, cutting them down. 

 

Concrete and glass rained upon the Guard phalanx barring their progress. MG5, G11 and their dummies turned their weapons towards them. Muzzles flared, bullets sparked on the dented shields. The Guards fired their pistols in retaliation. The phalanx held for a minute before showing signs of buckling. 

 

416 fired three shots. Glimmers of shattered shards, her bullets had found their mark. The Guard crumpled, her shield fell forward. The rest of the formation moved to close the gap. 

 

Too late. Sudaev’s grenade found its way through and exploded in their midst. 

 

“M4 to Team HK416, the Jaegers have disengaged. I think they have repositioned themselves along the corridors on the fifth floor.”

 

“Team HK416 to M4,” replied the T-Doll as she ran for the stairways, glancing at the directory sign along the way, “Acknowledged. Over.”

 

The feed rocked to the explosion and the shower of concrete, steel and coolant. MG5s kept their triggers pulled, covering the slow advance of their teammates. On the level above, a Guard shoved Ingram back, then jabbed her pistol forward. Sudaev immediately loosed a shower of bullets into the gap the Guard had unwittingly exposed. The mistake cost the Guard her arm. 

 

Ingram surged forth and jammed the shield before emptying a magazine into the Guard. She heaved the corpse over the railing, then advanced on another Guard.

 

They reached the fifth floor after fifteen minutes. The door slammed open and was immediately shattered by a bright comet. 

 

“Ingram! Grenade!” 416 urged. Ingram patted her deflated pouch and shook her head. “I’m out.” She peeked through the doorway and ducked, at a nick of time. She grinned, her eyes gleamed with malice. 

 

“Maybe I should just rush the Jaeger. Can’t be that hard to dodge that shot.” 

 

“Ingram!” 416 chastised. “Nein!” 

 

Ingram tched aside. “Sarge, you are no fun,” she grumbled. “Loosen the stick in that Kraut bum and live a little.” 

 

“416…” G11 clutched the silver-haired T-Doll’s shoulders. She was panting exhaustedly. “...I’m tired. Carry me.”

 

“NEIN!” 416 snapped. “We are going to lag behind our schedule!”

 

“Uuueeeeeeeeehhhhh…” G11 whined. 

 

416, frowning, turned her gaze towards the pink-haired T-Doll. “Sudaev!” The aforementioned T-Doll shot up in attention. “Da! Lider!” 

 

“Get a grenade into that corridor!” 

 

“Da!” Sudaev shouted again as she shot back onto her feet. She paced up and down two flights of stairs, shifting her angle each time, then paused for a moment. 

 

“Sudaev!” 416 shouted impatiently. Before she could speak further, Sudaev whipped out her grenade and tugged its cord string. “URAAAA!!!” she cried as she hurled the explosive.

 

Lightning and thunder. Dust and smoke. 416 shouted, “Vorrücken! Schnell!” 

 

The feed shuddered. Another grenade had set off around another corner. Ingram and Sudaev charged into the dust cloud, firing as they went. The echelon slaughtered the reeling Jaeger, Rippers and Guard with ease. 

 

Gunfire thundered behind the feed. 416 spun around and fired a grenade over the micro-drone. The feed rocked again as it turned around. More carcasses crumpled. Rippers. Their coolant splattered on the walls and floor. Guards emerged. The G11, 416 and MG5 dummies, one of each, fired upon them, halting their advance.

 

Another minute, another room or corridor cleared of hostiles. 

 

Fifteen minutes passed. The thundering sound of gunfire and falling cartridges still echoed in the corridor. The echelon waited five minutes, then resumed scouring the hallways.

 

Another ten minutes passed. G11 tugged at 416’s sleeve. “Can I rest now?” she pleaded. 416 shot her a glare before lowering her weapon and pressing on her earpiece.

 

“Team HK416 to M4, the building is cleared.” 

 

“So much for radio discipline,” Washington teased. 

 

Dry air rumbled through constricted throat. Hoarse grunts drowned by coursing coffee.

​

​