Fort Liberty was quiet at this hour. Most of the base still asleep. Their world never was.
Bulldog stripped his mag and tossed it into a crate. "You cut right instead of left."
Steele pulled off his helmet, sweat dampening the collar of his shirt. "Right gave us cross-angle on the stairwell."
Bulldog grunted. "Left would've boxed the mover faster."
Hawk descended from the tower, rifle slung, expression unreadable. "Right prevented fratricide if third-floor target pushed."
Bulldog gave Hawk a look. "You always side with him."
"I side with math," Hawk replied.
Ghost was already hunched over a tablet, reviewing helmet cam footage. "Entry time was three-point-two seconds slower than last run."
"Blame Bulldog," Joker said from where he leaned against the Humvee, unwrapping something that looked suspiciously like a candy bar at zero-dark-thirty. "He likes dramatic entrances."
Bulldog flipped him off without looking.
Risk knelt beside a crate, checking a simulated casualty card. "If we'd had civilian presence in the structure, that breach would've been too loud."
Steele's gaze shifted to him. "Not today," Steele said.
Risk met his eyes for half a second, then nodded once and stood.
They fell into silence again. Gear checked. Weapons cleared. No wasted motion. No loud laughter. No bravado. Just professionals resetting the board for another run.
Steele scanned the perimeter automatically, a habit he'd never shaken. Even on a closed training range inside one of the most secure installations in the country, his mind cataloged exits, sight lines, vulnerabilities. The things that could go wrong if someone decided today was the day to make history.
Ghost glanced up from his tablet. "Encryption held. No bleed."
"It always holds," Joker said around a mouthful of chocolate.
Ghost didn't look up. "It holds because I don't trust you."
Bulldog barked a low laugh.
Steele let the noise fade into background static. He watched his men instead. Watched the way they moved through post-op procedures like a choreographed dance they'd performed a thousand times. Five men who moved without hesitation when he gave the word. Five men who expected him to be right every single time. The weight of that never got lighter.
"Pack it up," Steele said. "Fifteen minutes, then we're back at the FOB."
They moved with practiced efficiency, breaking down gear and loading crates. No one complained about the early hour or the heat or the fact that they'd been running drills for six hours straight. This was the job. This was the life they'd chosen. Or the life that had chosen them. Steele wasn't sure which anymore.
The drive back to their Forward Operating Base was quiet. Joker kept the Humvee steady, navigating the pre-dawn roads with the same careful precision he brought to everything else despite the jokes. Ghost rode shotgun, eyes on his tablet, already reviewing footage and running analysis. The rest of them sprawled in back, weapons secured, bodies loose in that particular way soldiers learned when they needed to grab rest wherever they could find it.
Bulldog's eyes were closed but Steele knew he wasn't sleeping. Just conserving energy. Waiting. They were always waiting. For the call. For the op. For the moment when training became real and the bullets stopped being simulated.
The FOB appeared out of the morning gloom. Nothing fancy. Concrete barriers and chain-link fence and buildings that looked like they'd been assembled from a catalog of military-issue mediocrity. Home for the last eight months while they cycled through training rotations and waited for someone somewhere to decide they were needed.
Joker pulled through the gate and parked in their designated area. They unloaded in silence, each man falling into his assigned tasks. Weapons to the armory. Gear to the supply shed. Bodies to the showers and then maybe food if anyone felt like eating.
Steele headed for the command building to file the training report. Paperwork never stopped, even in Special Operations. Especially in Special Operations. Someone somewhere needed documentation that they'd blown through another ten thousand rounds of ammunition and yes, it was absolutely necessary.
The office was empty at this hour. He liked it that way. Quiet. Just him and the computer and the mechanical task of translating what they'd done into language that made sense to people who'd never stacked on a door.
He was three paragraphs in when his phone buzzed. Text from his sister.Mom's asking when you're coming home again.
Steele stared at the message. Home. Charlotte. A world that felt further away than any deployment ever had. He typed back.Don't know. Work's busy.
