The Team

Sergeant Mike "Vic" Victoria — squad leader, early forties, shaved head, a thick scar cutting through his left eyebrow — checked the chamber of his rifle for the third time. The metallic clack-clack echoed sharply in the confined space.

Next to him, Dominic "Dom" Cruz, lean and wiry, with a snake tattoo curling up his neck, tested the retention of his sidearm holster for the fifth time, his knee bouncing with nervous energy.

Across from them, Marcus "Chief" Chen — the biggest of them, broad-shouldered and solid as a concrete pillar — methodically tapped each magazine pouch on his vest, his lips moving silently as he counted. He was the team's senior operator after Vic, the quiet anchor, the one who never raised his voice but never needed to.

Beside Marcus, two operators Kayla didn't know — one with a thick beard, the other sporting a faded "Gym & Guns" hoodie under his plate carrier — compared flashbang inventories in low, muttered voices.

Near the rear doors, a lanky operator with "Hicks" sharpied on his helmet strap adjusted the fit of his shoulder mic for the fourth time. Beside him, a broad-shouldered man with close-cropped hair and no visible identifiers checked the action of his shotgun, the oily slick-slick of the pump a counterpoint to Vic's rifle checks.

And beside Kayla — pressed uncomfortably close because the van simply wasn't built for eight fully kitted operators, their weapons, their armor, their racks of magazines and pouches of grenades, plus one "asset" — sat Terrence "Terry" Vance. The youngest besides her, maybe thirty, with kind eyes that didn't match the knife strapped to his chest plate.

His knee touched hers with every bump in the road.

Neither of them moved it.