Battle Plan

You descend from the ridge, heat still lingering on your skin where Farah’s shoulder brushed against yours, mind still intoxicated by her scent. The men gather warily—tired, sullen faces illuminated by flickering firelight as twilight gives way to the darkness of a Zahiri night. They eye you both expectantly. Farah steps forward first, her voice calm, controlled, tactical.

“Alright, listen carefully,” she begins, unfolding a rough map onto a chunk of concrete rubble. Her finger traces the convoy's route. “The Russians pass here every evening at sunset. They move slowly, lazily—used to routine. Predictability is their weakness.”

You watch her speak, captivated by the smoothness of her voice, the strategic rhythm of her words. Farah’s strategy is precise, methodical—positioning snipers high, explosives planted carefully, timed assaults with minimal risk.

It's effective. Clinical. Safe. But fuck safe.

"Too cautious," you interrupt, stepping into the circle of men, your presence heavy with aggressive authority. "We should hit them harder, louder. Shock the bastards into shitting themselves. Let them know the Lions bite hard."

Farah’s emerald gaze narrows slightly, dangerous amusement flickering behind her eyes as she crosses her arms firmly over her chest.

“You mean reckless?” she asks softly, a subtle, mocking smile curling her lips. "You want to trade precision for fireworks."

You shrug, cocky, challenging her openly. "Sometimes a spectacle is what’s needed to remind them whose territory they’re desecrating."

The men exchange glances, uncertain. Farah steps forward calmly, facing you directly, close enough that you can smell the jasmine and gun oil again, making your pulse quicken.

"Your father always said aggression without strategy is just stupidity dressed as bravery," she says coolly, voice quiet but razor-sharp.

You smirk bitterly, eyes locked defiantly onto hers. "And strategy without balls is just masturbation."

A tense silence falls, broken only by a hesitant snicker from one of the men. Farah raises an amused eyebrow, eyes glittering despite her annoyance. Her voice lowers, staying firm.

"You can fuck your enemies without showing your entire hand," she murmurs, stepping closer, almost daringly so. "Precision, John—subtlety. Leave reckless displays to amateurs and Americans."

Your jaw clenches tightly as heat rushes through your veins, her proximity intoxicating. You exhale slowly, realizing she's right—goddamn her—but pride wars bitterly with reason.

After a long silence, you relent with exaggerated drama, throwing your hands up in mock surrender. "Fine. Have it your way. We'll play chess instead of checkers, Mother."

Farah smiles slowly, dangerously, victorious. "Chess can be satisfying too, Habibi. You just have to learn patience."

You laugh dryly, frustration mingled with **** admiration, turning back to the men watching you both warily. "You heard the lady—subtlety, precision, boring-ass careful planning."

Farah shoots you a smug look, stepping forward again, taking command smoothly. "Positions at dawn. Snipers to your posts early. Explosives planted discreetly and precisely. Trust me, brothers, tomorrow we’ll teach the Russians the true meaning of Zahiri hospitality."

The men disperse quietly, murmuring amongst themselves. You linger, still simmering from the confrontation. Farah moves to your side, her fingertips grazing your wrist, electric with forbidden intimacy.

"Don't sulk," she whispers. "I'll make sure there's plenty of fireworks for you."

You glance sideways, heart hammering in your chest.