It feels like something to live.
Together.
The End
Keep Reeding For More Of The Brave Team
SCARS OF TRUST
63
Russ
The call comes in at 02:11.
That’s how these things always start.
Not with warning. Not with mercy. Just a phone vibrating in the dark and the cold understanding that someone, somewhere, is already running out of time.
I roll out of bed before the second vibration hits, snagging the phone from the nightstand and answering on the move.
“Duncan.”
“Get to briefing room three. Ten minutes.”
The line goes dead.
No explanation.
No good morning.
Just the kind of clipped order that tells me this one is bad.
By the time I hit the hallway, I’m already dressed in black cargo pants and a gray T-shirt, boots half-laced as I move. The compound is quiet at this hour, but not asleep. Men like us never really sleep. We drift. We reset. We wait for the next fire.
Inside briefing room three, Miles Newton is already there, leaning back in a chair like he owns the place, coffee in one hand, expression grim enough to kill the usual smart-ass commentbefore it ever leaves his mouth. Lucas Spencer stands near the wall, arms folded, eyes on the screen. Clay Vincent is flipping a knife in one hand, catching it by the handle every time with that eerie calm of his.
I take the empty seat at the table.
“This sounds fun,” I mutter.
Miles slides a file across to me. “Depends on your definition of fun.”
I open it.
Photos.
Smoke.
Collapsed buildings.
Children covered in dust.
Medical tents shredded by shelling.
Then the satellite image comes up on the screen at the front of the room, along with a red circle over a battered section of western Iran.
Our handler steps forward. “Conflict escalation in the region has turned ugly fast. Local militia groups are using the chaos to settle scores, and the regime is cracking down hard. Foreign aid workers are being targeted. Americans especially.”
