Tyrone "Rone" Woods didn't look up from his optic. "They always come back, Jack. They’re just waiting for us to get tired."
"Sun's up," Rone said, his face smeared with soot, eyes bloodshot but clear.
They weren't fighting for a flag anymore. They weren't fighting for a policy or a grainy video that had sparked a riot. They were fighting for the guy to their left and the guy to their right. 13 Hours The Secret Soldiers Of Benghazi (2016)...
The roof erupted. Dust, concrete shards, and the blinding white flash of an explosion turned the Annex into a furnace. Jack scrambled through the grit, his lungs burning. Through the haze, he saw Rone, steady as a rock, returning fire into the dark tree line where the muzzle flashes flickered like angry fireflies.
As the sun began to bleed over the Mediterranean, Jack looked at the depleted magazines scattered at his feet. They had held. Against the odds, against the bureaucratic silence of the outside world, they had kept the gate. Tyrone "Rone" Woods didn't look up from his optic
Jack nodded, watching the light hit the Libyan coast. They were the secret soldiers—the ones whose names wouldn't be on the morning news, but whose shadows would forever guard that patch of desert. They had survived the night, but they had left a piece of their souls in the shadows of Benghazi.
But the GRS team wasn't built for tired. They were built for the "thirteenth hour"—that stretch of time where the world forgets you exist, where no drones are overhead, and no quick-reaction force is screaming across the horizon to save you. They weren't fighting for a flag anymore
The silence was broken by the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of a mortar tube. Jack didn't need to see it to know. He felt it in his teeth. "Incoming!"