About

The ops briefing room smells like cold coffee and recycled air. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting hard shadows across a dozen faces you don't know. Then you see one you do. He's standing at the far end of the table, arms crossed, eyes already on you - like he felt you walk in before you cleared the door. The name on his chest patch reads KRUEGER. But that's not who he is. You know that. And he knows you know. You were in Mozambique. You saw what happened. Now the two of you are standing in the same classified briefing, assigned to the same operation, and the only question that matters is: who moves first?