It's hot, too hot. The concrete floor of the parking garage Dalton's laying in is nearly baking in the mid day sun, burning his bare skin wherever it touches. Even with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up as far as they'll go he's still sweating like a pig, and his heavy plated TAC vest doesn't help. Tunisia in the middle of August is unpleasant, to say the least. Cloudless sky, no wind, and temperatures pushing 100°F do not for a happy Dalton make, especially not after lying motionless in a veritable oven for nearly 45 minutes. He can't imagine the rest of the team feels much better. McG had been especially…vocal… about his dissatisfaction. Squashing a grin he shifts a little, scuttling closer to the lip of the crumbling structure, peering through the scope of his rifle down at where Amir stands waiting under the glaring Tunisian sun.

He looks relatively unaffected by the heat, his light cotton shirt hanging loosely on his slight frame. Dalton's almost jealous, almost. He'd rather sweat a little then lose his vest though, or the Sig on his belt and M16 in his hands. If Amir feels the same he doesn't show it, crossing his arms nonchalantly as he glances around the empty sandy street like he's waiting for an uber. Sometimes Dalton forgets that for all Amir's new to their little team he's anything but new to the game. Three years undercover with ISIS, infiltrating over a dozen different terrorist cells, minimal contact with his handler or any friendlies. Sometimes Dalton wonders what exactly Amir saw in those three years. Part of him wants to know, the other part desperately doesn't.

Dalton's a pack animal, down to his very core. He likes his team, likes knowing that if he goes down in the field somebody will be there to drag him out, likes the solidarity that forms from that sort of trust. Like right now, for example. Amir might look alone but he's got four sets of eyes staring down their scopes at him, four people who have his back if things go to shit. That, to Dalton, is how it should work. That's what makes sense to him.

Amir, though, he's a more solitary creature. It makes sense of course, considering his background. Undercover work like that, trusting people just gets you killed fast and messy. No, in that situation it's better to trust no one but yourself, it's probably why Amir's survived as long as he has. Still, Dalton can't imagine what that feels like, the kind of loneliness that must breed in someone. To live every day looking over your shoulder, just waiting for the moment it all comes falling down around your ears and knowing that when it does there is no one coming to rescue you. It sends a shiver down his back, even in the heat. Shaking it off he refocuses himself, blinking away the sweat that threatens to drip into his eyes. Now's not the time to get distracted.

Currently they're all waiting on Youssef Jebali. Tunisian born and raised he'd left his homeland three years ago to answer the call of Jihad. Since then he'd seen action in both Syria and Iraq, emerging with a modest reputation among the right circles. Last year he'd returned to Tunisia along with a few hundred fellow radicalized ISIS foot soldiers and since then had been hard at work sowing dissent and destruction across the tiny country. There were even a few chatters here and there that linked him to the Bardo museum attacks that had left 22 people dead, mostly foreign tourists. Since then he'd lain low for the most part, slowly drifting off the US intelligence radar until two days ago when his name had popped up in a report detailing a meet with a Nigerian arms dealer the CIA was monitoring, Okonde Adeyemi. Intel posited that Jebali was planning something. Something big. With recent losses in Syria and Iraq and ISIS's slow but steady retreat into North Africa apparently the local cells needed a little bit of morale building, and Youssef Jebali was more then willing to provide.

The Tunisians had requested U.S. assistance, and of course the DIA had turned to it's one special ops team that had a member with deep-cover ISIS contacts in its ranks. They had asked and Amir, of course, had answered, with the same unflinching determination as he had met the phone call that had led them to Paris a few months ago. He still remembers the look in Amir's eyes when he'd asked him if he wanted to go back under, the fire that burned there dark and smoldering and so angry. What's the alternative, he'd said voice flat and strained, we do nothing and hope people don't die?He'd walked away then, towel still slung over his shoulder and muscles of his neck tight and corded. Dalton had watched him go and for the first time he'd seen the still waters of Amir Al-Raisani stirred, and in that moment he'd understood how the man had survived three years undercover with one of the deadliest terror organizations in the world

The meet was scheduled in Ben Gardane, a small coastal city with a population that barely scratched 80,000 (if you were generous) 20 miles from the Libyan border. It's biggest claims to fame were the local populace of camels and the highest per capita rate of defection to terrorist organizations in the world. Quite the vacation spot. It might have almost been beautiful, in a worn and barren sort of way, if Dalton hadn't been so focused on the impending contact. So here they were, baking slowly in the relentless desert heat while Amir stood defenseless and vulnerable in the street below waiting for Jebali to arrive.

Dalton glances away from Amir to look down at his watch. It's pushing one o'clock now, and the meeting was supposed to be at half past noon. He'd really appreciate if Jebali showed so they could get the intel and get the hell out of here because he's dying for a burger and a cold beer. As if on cue Jaz's voice crackles to life in his ear.

"You know, somebody really should talk to these guys about the importance of punctuality."

"I don't know if you should be the one talking about punctuality Jaz, you wouldn't know on time if it bit you in the ass."

McG quips, a second later there's the sound of a muffled grunt as Jaz retaliates.

"Hey McG, your proctologist called me. He said he found your head, you might want to start using it."

She snipes back, but there's no sting to her words and Dalton smirks as McG makes an offended noise.

"A wise man once said two of our most powerful weapons are patience and time."

Preach says placidly, adding his two cents to the conversation. McG groans and Dalton can almost picture him rolling his eyes in exasperation.

"Oh come on man, really? I mean what does that even mean?"

Dalton lets them bicker lightly; he knows they're just feeling restless. They can wait for hours, for days if need be. They've done it before, and he's sure they'll do it again, but they don't mean they have to like it. His team has always been better at action then standing still. He sympathizes, the waiting's starting to drag on him too. He can't imagine what Amir must be thinking or feeling down there, completely exposed on the street. He hadn't even let Jaz slip him his ka-bar, no matter how much she'd protested he shouldn't go in completely unarmed. Dalton's almost wishing he'd made him take it now. It'd make him feel a lot better to know Amir had some way of protecting himself, even if it was just a knife.

Eventually the gentle back and forth exchange dies out leaving nothing but soft static behind. The minutes drag by; sun slowly making it's way across the blindingly blue sky ever westward. Dalton swears it gets hotter, if that's even possible. His muscles are starting to cramp from inactivity and his throat is dry. Below Amir still waits, arms still folded over his chest and face inscrutable.

It's the second time since he's joined their team that he's played Hamid Khedani. Dalton wonders if it's easy for him to slip back into the identity, like putting on an old suit that stills fits, or if it just brings back uncomfortable memories. It seems almost unfair, to ask this of him again. The first time had been driven by desperation and unresolved issues, that much is clear, and there hadn't been time in the moment to think about it. Now though, Amir had left his days as a spy behind for whatever reason; Amir hasn't offered one and Dalton hasn't asked. Joined a different kind of fight, left the ghosts of his past in the past. Should they really be forcing him to dredge them back up? There are other ways of getting the information they need, perhaps less efficient but certainly just as effective. Ghosts have a nasty habit of catching up to you though, Dalton knows, and Amir had been given a choice and said yes to it. Still, he's curious as to what actually lies behind Amir's carefully blank face right now. He's well aware that they see what Amir wants them to see. Underneath the quiet awkwardness the man might as well be a brick wall emotionally. Dalton likes to think he'll open up to them eventually, with enough time even brick walls have to crumble.


Preach carefully adjusts the settings on his laser mike, tilting it a few degrees to the left so the beam can reflect off the cracked pane of a window set on the face of a building Amir is standing near. It's not a perfect set-up, the window isn't perfectly smooth, Amir's standing a little far from the surface the mike's reflecting off, and they're out in the open which degrades the quality of the audio by half all on it's own. In the end he'll be lucky to pick anything up at all. Still, he does the best he can with what he has. It's what they're built for, making do in bad situations. Besides, Amir's depending on him. He's running with no comms or wires, so Preach and his microphone are his last resort if he needs to communicate with the rest of the team. It's a heavy burden to carry, so Preach tilts by degrees and fiddles with the settings just that little bit more. He'll be damned if the reason his teammate goes down is because he didn't do his best.

Satisfied that the mike is as good as it's going to get he leans back, wiping the back of his arm across his forehead and taking a sip of water from his Camelback. He's tucked into a squat derelict building along an alleyway that connects to the street corner Amir's currently waiting on. The beat up SUV they 'requisitioned' (which just means Preach hotwired it while the rest of the team kept watch) once they got into Ben Gardane sits behind him, parked in the dark shadows of the alley. From his position all he can see is Amir's narrow back through the open window in front of him. There used to be glass, but it's long since been shattered leaving nothing behind but a few jagged shards sticking up from the sill. The air inside the building is warm and still, hazy with motes of dust illuminated by the diffuse sunlight that filters through the cracks.

Outside Amir shifts his weight from one foot to the other, head moving back and forth as he scans the street. There are dark stains of sweat around the neck of his shirt and down the V of his back and the skin of his neck glistens in the sunlight. Preach watches as he settles himself, stilling his movement till he could be a statue, watches the steady rise and fall of his shoulders as he breaths, slow and even and deep.

He wonders if he's praying. Preach is not a particularly religious man-he's far too pragmatic for that- but he meant what he said back in Syria on their first mission together. About believing in something greater. He had meant it then and he still means it now. Maybe he doesn't believe but Amir still does after everything that he's been through and there's something good to that, something pure to that sort of faith. It's for things like that that Preach fights, for the good things in the world. It's what he holds close to him every time he pulls the trigger, what he thinks of when he hugs his daughter's goodnight. It's the reason he's still in this game when it means spending months apart from his family and home with a better then even chance of never seeing them again.

Once Preach stumbled upon Amir praying back at base in Incirlik. It had been early, maybe six or so, and the rest of the team were still in their bunks after a rough op. He had sat quietly on the picnic bench out front and watched as Amir finished his morning prayers, turning his head left then right and saying something in Arabic before standing. After he'd carefully folded his prayer rug he'd joined Preach on the bench. Preach had asked him what he'd said. Amir had smiled softly, closing his eyes against the rising sun.

"Qad alsalam ealaykum warahmat allah maeakum 'aydaan. It means, may the peace and mercy of Allah be with you too." He'd replied. "I say this to the angels who will record both my good and bad deeds on my left and right shoulders. It is how you end your time of salah."

Preach had nodded and they'd watched the sun rise together without speaking. After that it had become a regular occurrence. Preach would wander out in the morning and wait for Amir to finish his prayers and then they would sit together, drinking coffee or the strong minty tea Amir liked. Sometimes they'd talk, sometimes they would simply sit in silence and enjoy the tranquility of the daybreak before the base began to rise from its slumber and the hush of dawn fell away.

When they did talk they'd talk about anything or about nothing at all, from how Preach's daughters were doing in school too Amir's life growing up in Lebanon. They don't talk about family, though, Preach had learned this early on. Once he'd asked if Amir had any siblings. The other man's face had twisted and darkened, a weary sadness flashing in his eyes before he'd looked away and changed the subject. Preach had never brought up siblings again.

When Preach asks Amir tells him about his prayers. About fajr and zuhr and asr and maghrib and isha. How his first prayer begins at subh saadiq-or true dawn-and his last begins at fajr sadiq when the red light is gone from the western sky. He thinks the most unguarded he's ever seen Amir is when he explains his faith to Preach. That's when the walls fall away and for a little bit Preach feels he truly sees Amir the man, not Amir the soldier or the spy. Once he had asked him why he prayed. Amir had just shrugged.

"Why does anyone? I pray for the same reasons that Christians or Catholics or Jews pray: to become closer to my God, to find guidance when I have lost my way."

When Preach had just watched him silently, waiting, he'd continued.

"I guess…for me prayer is a way to center myself, it give me balance between here-and here." He had said, touching two fingers to his forehead and then to his heart. "It brings me peace."

The words had stuck with Preach long after the conversation had ended, and he ponders them now as he eyes Amir's still form. Is he at peace right now? Standing here and waiting for a very dangerous man, wearing the skin of a past that must bring him pain peace seems a difficult thing to achieve. Watching Amir though, Preach sees no indication of anything else. He admires that about his teammate, that ability to let everything else fall away, to live entirely in the present without thought to the past or future. Perhaps this is also why he prays, this is the strength his faith gives him.

Dalton's voice brings him back to moment and Preach shelves his philosophical musings for another time.

"Alright everyone, eyes up, looks like our guy finally decided to show."

And just like that, the wait is over.