That familiar two-tone alert on the radio. "Mother, Faye. We have a JTF platoon inbound from our safehouse in Clinton, but it's going to take time. Whatever you're doing, do it quick." There's a pause. "If need be, Judge can exfil any intel you find in Amherst's apartment."

Lindianne, halfway through clipping in for leaving the helicopter, makes a noise not unlike a cat whose tail just got stepped on. "Yeah. Sure. Hold the line. We're good at that." There's no bite behind the grumbling, though. It's less insubordination than venting. "Right. On our way up, Mother. Try not to die, please."

(It should be noted that the very first person she secures is the big guy in the courtyard. It takes any idea of fighting back right out of the others.)

There's the scrape of gravel underfoot. A sniff. Then a round of coughing. "We're gonna need air freshener after this mission. God, what a stink."