Jack stood on the roof of the Annex, the matte finish of his rifle cool against his palms. In the distance, the honey-colored glow of the city felt deceptive. Somewhere out there, the Ambassador’s compound was a skeleton of smoke and ash, and the reality of their situation was sinking in like lead.
The humid night in Benghazi didn’t smell like revolution anymore; it smelled like spent brass and diesel. 13 Hours The Secret Soldiers Of Benghazi (2016)...
As the sun began to bleed over the Mediterranean, Jack looked at the depleted magazines scattered at his feet. They had held. Against the odds, against the bureaucratic silence of the outside world, they had kept the gate. Jack stood on the roof of the Annex,
They weren't fighting for a flag anymore. They weren't fighting for a policy or a grainy video that had sparked a riot. They were fighting for the guy to their left and the guy to their right. The humid night in Benghazi didn’t smell like
"Sun's up," Rone said, his face smeared with soot, eyes bloodshot but clear.
The silence was broken by the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of a mortar tube. Jack didn't need to see it to know. He felt it in his teeth. "Incoming!"
Tyrone "Rone" Woods didn't look up from his optic. "They always come back, Jack. They’re just waiting for us to get tired."