About the guards who were going to die tonight because they'd chosen to work for a man who brokered death for profit. Men who probably had families. Who probably thought they were just doing a job. Who were still going to end up dead because they stood between Delta and the mission objective.
About whether twelve hours of planning was enough for an operation this complicated. The answer was no. It was never enough. But it was what they had. And they'd make it work because that's what they did.
Hawk's voice cut through the hum, low enough to stay between them. "Weather's clear over Nineveh."
Steele nodded once.
Bulldog opened one eye. "Wind?"
"Minimal. Three to five knots from the west."
"Good."
Ghost glanced up from his tablet. "Thermal sweep still shows heat variance under the west wing."
"Tunnel," Bulldog muttered.
"Or generator variance," Ghost countered. "Could be HVAC. Could be water heater. Could be a dozen things that aren't a tunnel."
Steele spoke without looking up from the mission packet. "Assume tunnel."
Because assuming the best-case scenario was how you ended up dead when the worst case walked through the door.
They fell quiet again.
The C-17 banked slightly. Course correction. Steele felt it in his inner ear before the aircraft settled back to level flight.
Risk looked up from his medical kit. "How long we staying in Erbil?"
"Long enough to transfer to rotary," Steele said. "Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes on the ground."
"Any chance to recheck updated intel?"
"Ghost will pull latest satellite before we board. Anything changes, we adjust on the fly."
Risk nodded and went back to his kit.
Joker shifted position, the cargo netting creaking under his weight. "You think Nazari knows we're coming?"
"No," Steele said.
"You sure?"
"He's careful. But he thinks his walls keep him safe. Thinks his money buys him protection. He's wrong."
"And if he's not wrong?" Joker pressed. "If he's got advance warning?"
"Then we adapt. But intel says he doesn't. No unusual movement. No security increases. No changes to pattern-of-life. He's comfortable."
"Comfortable gets you killed," Bulldog said without opening his eyes.
"That's the idea," Steele replied.
Three hours into the flight, the cargo ramp lowered just enough for cold air to knife inside as they descended toward Erbil Air Base. The temperature drop was immediate. Went from climate-controlled cabin to near-freezing in seconds.
The runway lights cut sharp through darkness below them. Touchdown was controlled and smooth. The C-17's wheels kissed concrete without drama. Good pilot. Knew his aircraft.
Within minutes, they were moving across the tarmac toward a hardened hangar lit in muted amber. The kind of structurebuilt to survive mortar fire and keep operational secrets from prying eyes. No fanfare. No ceremony. Just handoffs from one aircraft to another. One phase of the operation to the next.
