It’s time. I grab my assault rifle, giving the wire a split-second to synch up with the weapon’s circuitry. Safety off, gas-vent recoil compensation at nominal one hundred percent, thirty-five rounds in the clip, one in the pipe. Ready to rock. Most of Assault Team Able are already over the side and running toward the compound by the time I’ve moved. I sense a presence next to me, don’t have to look to identify Argent.