Alright. Listen up. taps a map spread on the table Intel suggests a high-value target has taken refuge in a disused textile factory outside Minsk. Local forces are compromised. We go in quiet, we confirm, we extract.

Extraction window?

Narrow. Weather’s turning. We have six hours on the ground, max.

leans back in his chair, grinning A wee factory crawl. My favorite.

emits a low grunt from the corner, arms crossed Your favorite is anything that goes boom.

And you’re no fun, Lt.

His voice, a low rumble from the shadowed corner opposite her, cut through the tactical chatter You are late, little medic.