Tom lowered his sidearm, holstering it at his thigh. "Yes, we do."

Eduardo signaled for the loitering men to vacate and wasted little time in elaborating once they were gone. "I was betrayed by my second in command. When I arrived back in Cuba, I was taken into custody. I had no way of contacting or warning you—I am a man of my word, Admiral Chandler. It took me two months to escape, but I was forced underground. We have no secure comms; I couldn't risk reaching out to you or your allies. Believe me, if I could—I would."

Tom considered Fuentes for a moment, deeming the former Cuban leader's explanation sincere. "Understood. How many of you are there?"

Fuentes moved his head toward the table behind, indicating Tom to step closer. He shuffled some papers and maps before locating the correct one. "Five hundred at this camp. A thousand more spread between these strongholds." Tom observed while Fuentes pointed to various locations between the northern and southern shores, the same chokepoints they'd identified themselves. There was something else though, a large 'X' east of Havana and 10 klicks south-east of Simon Bolivar, 'Centeno'.

Tom rested two fingers on the spot. "What is this?"

Eduardo shook his head. "We don't know yet, it went up fast less than a month ago, the locals were warned to stay away, intel's thin, but it's heavily fortified."

Chandler squinted before drawing his fingers back. He straightened and faced Fuentes. "We sent a team to make contact with the Rebels. They brought weapons; they should be here by now…"

Eduardo bobbed his head. "Yes. We have two of them—my men intercepted them a few hours ago. You'll understand why I had reservations, Gustavo has many allies inside, we had to be sure."

Tom nodded. "I'd like to see them."

"Of course."

Mike sat at Tom's desk, the two white envelopes laid before him identical save for his distinctive scrawl on each, 'Kids' and 'Sasha'. He looked at the landline, teeth clenched and aching in his temples. Somehow, in all these years, he'd never thought about what he'd say. They'd been here a couple times, Tom and he. Similar instances where he'd been handed a note, but never pondered how to go about breaking the news. Inevitably that god-awful phone call with Christine flooded his mind, a surge of raw grief for his son lodging itself tight along with his heartbreak over Tom. Mike cleared his throat and picked up the phone, resting the headset against his forehead with eyes closed. The tone rang loud, and Mike found the sound perfectly fitting. An audible representation of the finality of the task at hand. He slammed the handset down, scrubbing hands down his face, and exhaled.

He didn't want to do this.

Didn't know how.

Hunching, Mike rested his weight against his elbows, steepling fingers over his eyes, a physical attempt to prevent the tear ducts from producing while he employed every trick in the book to remain composed. Futile, in hindsight.

Barco leaned his head back against the stone wall, peering bored at the ceiling, mapping the same cracks he'd studied all night. They seemed different in the sunlight, deeper. Could see the intricate cobwebs and compiling dust. "What branch you say you're from again?"

Pablo turned his head slow to glance at the Marine. "I didn't. Former Green Beret—was working D.I.A when shit hit the fan. Narcotics in Columbia."

Barco bobbed his head, holding back the crack joke because their captor had seen fit to re-enter the room. The weathered man, if Pablo had to guess, in his late fifties, maybe early sixties, pulled a smoke from his mouth. Little more than rolled up tobacco and threw it down, grinding it into a fine pulp with a worn boot. When done, he hooked both thumbs on his belt. "Es tu dia de suerte."

Both Barco and Pablo frowned. Nothing about this op could be deemed 'lucky', but the man's words made sense when two figures entered their makeshift cell seconds later.

Pablo scoffed. "No shit." His counterpart, Barco, looked on in disbelief.

Tom gave a casual nod of acknowledgment in greeting, scanned, noting they were unharmed. Bound, which the weathered man was currently rectifying, but otherwise good. "The team?" He kept his tone even despite the hollow in his gut. Sasha had disembarked mere seconds before Liberty One blew, shrapnel could easily have hit any one of their chutes, and he'd spent the past ten hours blocking that out. Existed on purpose and drive alone. Now, however, purpose wasn't enough—he wanted assurances.

"Headed toward Havana to secure the cache," Pablo answered. He rubbed his wrists, now freed, and took the outstretched hand Tom offered.

"Casualties?"

Barco had pushed himself up, braced against the stone wall to steady his stiff legs. "Six Marines, Sir. Everyone else made it down." Tom felt guilty that his immediate feeling was one of immense relief, followed only then by the grim regret over their losses.

Pablo was still staring at the Admiral with an expression somewhere between awe and amusement. "No offense—but how are you alive?"

Tom had pondered that himself, woken to a plane going down, lungs full of smoke, and a side pierced with shrapnel. Questioned further when he'd made the reckless decision to tear said shrapnel from his side, ignoring quite literally every piece of field medical training he'd ever received, 'never pull the foreign object out'. Why? Couldn't particularly say. No reason other than his gut, and after briefly losing consciousness on the back of burning his own skin, he'd set his mind to finding Lima. Used the stars to determine a relative bearing and hiked toward Güines from there.

"I jumped," he replied, nonchalant before turning back to Fuentes. "Take me to their gear." It wasn't a request, and he didn't need to imagine what was befalling Sasha right now because he'd already lived it.

Sasha kept watch through her scope, eyes traversing the tiered balconies wrapping the courtyard in sweeping methodical movements. Behind her, the team was dismantling the cache, preparing it for transport. Didn't take a genius to recognize their giant math problem, and while their courtyard so far reminded conspicuously vacant, Sasha was sure their luck wouldn't hold. Close to forty-five hundred pounds spread between nine people wasn't a game they'd win in a hotbed of Cuban Military.

Azima re-appeared, announcing herself, and Sasha relaxed her finger on the trigger. "Truck is just behind in the alley, but I don't think it will be empty for much longer," Azima said.

The corner of Sasha's jaw ticked, but she gave no other reaction. This was bad. All bad. The sun was up, streets beyond beginning to bustle, but what other choice did they have? They hadn't been able to contact Cobra since o-four hundred, so it was secure the cache or hand it over to Gustavo's men.

As if reading her mind, Danny called out. "Nothing from Rambo?"

"Nothing," Sasha said.

Time crawled at a snail's pace, the team working in near silence, the only sound that of their gear, and the occasional grunt of effort. They were minutes from hauling the first load to the vehicle when static crackled. Sasha frowned; the line staying dead for several seconds before anyone spoke.

"Sasha."

The air was stolen from her lungs.

Danny and the rest of Lima froze, exchanging bewildered looks.

Her chest spasmed against her will, and she turned her back to the group. The torrent she'd been suppressing surged, bursting through her system. Hands shaky and desperate, she hit the button on her vest, mouth hanging agape in disbelief while she struggled to respond. "Tom!?"

Tom tucked his chin, drawing his lips into a regretful line at the sound of her voice—like she'd been to hell and back. It tore at him. Pablo, Barco, and Fuentes hung back a respectable distance, stealing glances in their peripherals. He couldn't say what he needed to… not on an open mic with their entire command on the line, but to not even acknowledge felt callous. It took a few seconds more before he found a solution. "YA zdes', ne mogu tak legko ot menya izbavit'sya." I'm here, can't get rid of me that easily.

Sasha gave a watery scoff, scrubbed a hand over her face, and took a steadying breath, swallowing against the lump in her throat, composure threadbare. "U tebya vse normal'no?" Are you okay?

Tom smiled a little. "YA seychas." I am now. "Are the weapons secure?"

Sasha sniffed, his simple affectionate anecdote like balm on a wound. She shook her head a fraction, forcing herself to refocus. "For now, but I don't know how long we can hold our position—the cache landed in Havana, we're pinned in a courtyard just south of Bernaza and Teniente Rey. Only a matter of time until we attract the wrong kind of attention."

Tom shifted his body toward Fuentes, bringing his gaze up to lock with the leader. Eduardo nodded in affirmation. "I know it, that's east of the Capitol in old Havana. Gustavo's men are all over, we need to move."

Fuentes pressed with haste, yelling orders to his men in the room before leaving the building altogether. Tom, Pablo, and Barco followed closely behind. "Alright, sit tight, keep a low profile—I found El Gallo, We're on our way."

"Rambo and Barco?" Sasha assumed they must be there too. The only plausible conclusion to account for Tom radioing in on this frequency.

"Rebels were holding them. They're with me."

"We'll be waiting—Lima, out." Sasha took a moment to school her features into something benign and controlled before turning around. Their combined expressions were that of awe, shock, and, in Azima's case, bemusement. The relief from Danny palpable, a soft smile curling his lip.

"Guy's invincible," Captain Utt murmured to Toone, whose brows communicated his surprise.

A comment Sasha chose not to acknowledge, caught in a storm of conflicting disbelief and foreboding fear that demanded to know how many more chances they'd get. How many times they could stare death in the face and somehow escape its jaws. Scared to let her heart rejoice for fear it would only be destroyed. Not until they were both safe and together and at home.

She stepped forward. "We hold this courtyard—Kandie, set claymores on the door. Utt, Toone, figure out how to reinforce it. The rest of us set a perimeter."

Mike sniffed, fingers wiping at stinging eyes. Cleared his throat in a way that seemed to echo around the room. Swiped under his nose, catching the moisture before clenching that hand into a fist and resting it near the phone. For several moments he stared, studying the plastic lines and rounded buttons, the immediate wave of grief ebbing as he took steadying breaths. Before resolve failed him once more, Mike clenched his jaw and picked up the phone. He was halfway dialing Ashley when Russel Jeter burst in. Mike snapped his focus up, index now hovering over the nine.

"Put down that phone."

He complied. Hand still on the headset while an awful tantalizing hope erupted within.

"He's alive." The reverence in Jeter's voice was perfectly befitting.

Mike blinked, mind doing something akin to a reboot. "Son of a bitch." Pushed himself out of the chair and followed Russ back toward the war room.

Miller watched the minutes tick by on the digital hand, painstakingly aware of how insane it was. All around they could hear the jeers and laughs, yet still, they remained undiscovered in the courtyard. His back was pressed tight against the brick wall, manning the door on the third level. Knife at the ready in case someone stepped through. Below him, one tier down, Wolf held the same position, Danny poised at the opposite end. Sasha, Azima, and Toone on the ground floor door, the Doc and Utt on either side of the cache.

Barely had time to react when the door on Wolf's tier swung open. Everyone froze and tensed. The man shuffled, whistling a tune with rumpled clothes and hands moving toward his pants. Sasha snapped her gaze up, catching Wolf's wide-eyed look. Couldn't believe the soldier was drunk enough not to see Danny mere feet in front of him, nor Wolf in his peripheral. Wolf stepped forward, drawing knife taught against the man's throat. "Shhh."

The soldier froze, eyes now wide and bewildered, bleary, and cataloging the number of guns pointed at him. Sasha's heart thudded in her throat, watched the soldier raise both palms in surrender, not missing the slight tremor in them. Maybe they would have been fine had the door next to Danny not swung open too, revealing three more soldiers.

"Fuck."

There was an awkward moment, a fraction of a second where no one acted before Sasha, Azima, and Utt were forced to fire. All hell broke loose, hadn't been able to kill the one who'd radioed 'Americano's' frantically in time. Three bodies lay strewn on the ground. A fourth, now falling from the balcony and landing with a thud on the brick floor.

"Holy shit!" Miller exclaimed, descending the metal stairs two at a time to get to a lower tier, one that offered a better vantage point toward the courtyard door.

Sasha thumbed her radio. "Tom, we've been made. What's your ETA!?" She had to yell over the sounds of Cuban soldiers swarming the courtyard from the streets beyond.

"We're fifteen minutes out."

Azima shot her a quick glance from the opposite side of the brick archway. The only cover they'd have once the Cubans broke through.

Danny flexed the grip on his M4. Taking aim from the lower tier. "We don't really have any other options here." He sounded resigned; a tone Sasha seldom heard unless it was dire. Couldn't disagree with that sentiment.

The wooden door jumped in response to the men slamming with force at its other side.

Sasha turned back to Azima. "Are those charges set?"

She nodded. "Affirmative."

The door bucked again, sunlight briefly showing through its gap before plunging shut again with a slam. A wooden beam Utt found holding it closed—for now. They fell into silence, Utt, Toone, and the Doc taking cover behind the weapons cache, weapons trained in the same fashion, ready to shoot once those guards broke through. Wolf moved on the balls of his feet, physically readying himself while adrenaline raced through his body.

It was a mere minute more before the sound of a truck was heard on the other side. Sasha snapped her weapon up, catching Azima's eyes and urgently issuing a command. "Fall back!" They'd barely made it behind the cache when the claymores detonated. Sasha cowered, hands covering her ears, offering meager protection. Tinnitus dulling every sound around her. The yells and screams, from what she assumed, were the Cuban's. The daisy chain explosion of whatever vehicle they'd used to ram through the doors. Crumbling brick… but no gunfire.

Slowly, she rose, blinking the swirling dust from her eyes. It littered the air, not unlike snow, and settled its finely pulverized pieces upon her hair and lashes the same way too. They'd blown out the entire wall of the building. Looked like a mortar had hit it. Brick sagged and collapsed in the middle—only way out was through the building. Only way in was through it too. At least it brought them some minutes. Several until another swung open, and troops started swarming through.

You could hear it a mile away. The near-constant gunfire, as Eduardo gunned it and swerved through the streets toward the chaos. A small convoy of vehicles trailed their approach, unhindered thanks to Lima, or rather because of Lima. Tom wasn't thankful at all, would rather have bullets fired at him. With methodical, secondary movements he checked his weapon once more, cataloged his extra ammo stored in his vest. A routine which hadn't changed an iota in over twenty years. Same with the focus that shut out the voice. The one that needed Fuentes to move faster. That needed to be there forty minutes ago—it wouldn't help.

It happened fast once they finally got there. Smoke grenades launched, wheels screeching to a halt. Door of the old but sturdy military jeep slamming wide open as Tom, Pablo, and Barco jumped out. Right in the thick, finding targets and shooting them down. Deadly, controlled, efficient. Didn't dwell on the disaster of rubble because gunfire meant someone was still alive. They pressed forward, leaving the street for Fuentes's men to clear, and followed the gunfire inside. The bar was unexceptional. Almost all alcohol bottles smashed, the sickly sweet scent of rum, liquor, and cocktails mixed with gunpowder coating the room. Tom fired a shot through the skull of the first soldier who turned, more men hearing the sound and whirling around. Attacked now on both fronts.

When the last soldier fell, Tom moved toward the door, staying covered for protection. "Hold your fire!"

Sasha's heart lurched. Drew her weapon down as the gunfire came to an abrupt halt. "You're clear!" She was already moving when Tom appeared. Moving without thinking, or caring, or needing anything else before she captured his lips. He caught her weight, ignored the pain that flared thanks to her force, and placed his hands at her waist. More distance than he'd like, thanks to their vests and gear, but necessary. Pablo filed out, catching and returning Danny's head nod and smug grin. Barco sidestepped the Admiral and Sasha to fist bump Utt, the Doc, and Toone in the center of the courtyard.

Fuentes emerged from that same door, breathing labored from the intense but short fight. "Street's contained but we need to leave—now."

With their time cut short far too soon, Tom broke away, though he didn't acknowledge Fuentes. Instead, he palmed Sasha's face while he did a quick sweep—thumbed the blood on her neck.

"Just a scratch." Sasha breathlessly said. She was blinking away moisture, biting down on her lip to keep it steady as she ran hands over his shoulders. Almost frightened he'd disappear if she didn't. Figured they were drawing unwanted attention when he briefly cast his gaze behind her, inclining his head in acknowledgment of the team before refocusing. Warmth colored his features, a soft smile upon his lips.

Eduardo looked beyond the Admiral and whom he assumed was his wife toward Lima team. One of the men seemed familiar, though he couldn't place why. "Welcome to Cuba." Offered just before he headed back to prepare the convoy to depart.

Tom wiped an errant tear from below her eye while Sasha swiped at her nose. Stepping back a fraction, though his hand stayed on her upper arm. She cleared her throat and nodded. "I'm good." Perhaps stated for herself rather than him while he lingered.

"You sure?"

She nodded once more. "Yeah—let's get the hell out of here." Tom offered another small smile before shifting his demeanor and focus toward the mission at hand. Lima was already lifting the cases, Danny and Pablo passing by them and out onto the streets beyond as they separated.

Tom thumbed his radio, watching while Sasha joined the group to assist Wolf in hauling another case off the ground. "Command, CNO. Lima Team and weapons are secure, we're heading back to the Rebel's base camp."

There came a collective sigh of relief in the war room at Southern Command. Jeter even clapping Swain's shoulder in delight. The Ensign could finally breathe. The last fistulas of panic dissipating thanks to their collective success. Mission wasn't quite FUBAR yet.

Mike's smile carried over the HF. "It's good to hear your voice, Admiral."

"It's good to be heard—how are we looking?"

"Captain Green is pursing the ship that shot down Liberty One, same signature as the one we faced in the strait. Maybe your friend El Gallo has some ideas about that."

Tom moved so Utt and Toone could pass before following them through the bar and out onto the street. The smoke from their grenades still billowed, casting an eerie, hazy glow through the sunlight. "Yep—reading my mind."

"Safe to say you're joining the op?"

Mike's knowing jab was welcomed banter, and Tom suppressed the natural smirk in response because Sasha was eyeing him with hollowed cheeks and a haunted look while she listened to their exchange. She wanted Tom to get the hell out of Cuba—irony of the situation not lost. "I'm gonna stick around. Not much choice… Until the James sinks that ship, anything we fly is target practice." Sasha looked away, hopping into the vehicle—he was right, and she hated it. If word got out that he was here… she clenched her jaw against the morbid scenarios flooding her thoughts. Listening instead as the last of the cache was loaded up. Fuentes's guy banged the truck twice to signify it ready, and Tom climbed in, reaching up to use the handhold.

A mistake.

In the adrenaline-fueled fight, he'd forgotten about the throbbing wound, and despite his best attempt, Tom couldn't suppress the grimace.

"You're hurt." Her tone was terse. Bordering on accusation—concern would never sway Tom's stubbornness; she'd learned that years ago.

"I'm fine." He settled beside her; taking shallow breaths, back straight as a rod, while Sasha scrutinized, trying to pinpoint the injury. Her mouth opened to argue, but Pablo and Danny chose that moment to jump in.

Danny, who usually read a situation well, was too high on adrenaline still to notice the tense look upon Sasha's face. His thoughts focused instead on his utter relief that Chandler wasn't dead. In a display he typically reserved for his peers, Danny reached over and clapped Tom's shoulder. "Glad you're still with us, Sir."

Tom returned the gesture—with his left hand, Sasha noted—eyes immediately fixating upon his right side. "I told you, jumping's like falling off a bike."

Danny huffed out a laugh, remembering the Admiral's remark in the hanger bay. "Hell of a bike, Sir."