Sweat beaded the brow of the professional soldier, Alastair barely missing a tripwire and cursing as he scarcely got both his feet beneath him and regained his balance in time. God how he hated the fucking jungle! Nothing but bloody insects and sweltering heat, and now there was razor wire and the possibility of setting off a chain of explosives with every step they took as well.

“This day just keeps getting better,” he growled, caring not a bit if the others of his team were listening in, “any idea where that bastard is heading now? Won't get far on foot, but it seems he was expecting some form of company.”

Squatting down into a foxhole, the soil recently disturbed but with no sign of the former inhabitants, he took a quick glance at the weapons and clearly formed bricks of white powder. Ignoring these, and instead lifting his carbine to his shoulder, peering through the optic scope with short breaths coming from inside him, he tapped a small button on his mic and directed his questioning to the second oldest member of the Devils.

“Cheetah, any chance they knew we were coming?” he questioned, all business now and with a hint of irritation edging his voice, “if we've lost the element of surprise, well, then we're shafted nice and proper.”

Never one to miss the chance at rehydration, he plucked his canteen from his rigging and took a draught – truly the water, as it always did during missions such as this, tasted as if it had come from the gods above.

“I've got a few ideas,” continued the chatter to the Brazilian who had made the discovery of their current precarious position and situation, “but what is your take on things, how should we advance from here?”