The morning of the raid.
Tristan and four of his subordinates for today were sitting inside a stuffy, dusty truck, sweating in their heavy gear even though the September sun wasn't up yet.
His team comprised Tomas, with whom Tristan had good rapport, and his three best subordinates: Trey, Owen, and Cutout. At least, those were their working pseudonyms.
Tomas didn't have time to fully recover from his arm wound, but he stoically bore the pain, and his experience compensated for any problems it might cause.
To make sure they succeeded, both teams were fit with the best gear available, including earpieces for communication, bulletproof vests, teargas grenades, protective goggles, and respirator masks.
The last two were the main reasons everybody was sweltering. However, they couldn't take them off now.
Twelve minutes earlier, the Strike Team One, also known as Pierce's team, went into the target building.
