Half an hour ago.
Somewhere inside a van, a man pried away the curtain for a moment and glimpsed at the outside world before putting it back into position.
He was anything but ordinary. He wore a military vest with magazines inside the pouches. In his right hand, he held the barrel of an AK-74, its buttstock planted on the floor.
He murmured a response into the handphone as if receiving instructions and took a deep breath.
He pulled his hood down, covering his entire face except for his eyes. His head turned toward the interior, where his teammates sat in silence.
Eight men awaited his words. They were similarly armed to the teeth. Nobody could discern their identities or races.
Even the portions of skin they showed seemed artificially obscured, as if their complexion had been altered to match the locals.
When their leader ended the call, they knew the action had begun. Their postures straightened, and their auras turned murderous.
