[b]April 27th 2025 [/b]
[b]Rebel Hideout[/b]

She had raided better-defended places in her police career, but not many. Ten guys with just small arms, fantastic-ten G3s or FALs all locked and loaded and ready to go, with a chance for an appearance by a technical. It was like being back in Afghanistan, doing the sort of stuff she had promised herself that she would never do again. SWAT raids got nasty but gangbangers and sicarios were typically more interested in getting out alive than fighting to the death. People fighting for a higher power or ideal were more motivated, more willing to go out shooting. Was anyone in the Order devoted enough to strap on a bomb vest and dead man's detonator? There was certainly a chance.

Improvising an exit strategy didn't suit Arsala much either. She didn't mind hoofing it (indeed, much of her work in the Recon team back home involved hiking across stretches of border country) but if they got there and found no vehicle ready and waiting to be commandeered, what then? They just hightailed it back to base with the VIP in tow, exchanging shots all the while with gunmen that could very well be giving chase? It sounded like a screw-up in the making, but it was likely the best option they had. If curfew was strict, which it almost undoubtedly was, a running engine would attract curious eyes and, with them, the enemy. 

...it really was like being back in Afghanistan. Wandering around some rural backwood with a crew of [i]farang [/i] in plate carriers and combat boots, hoping that the locals were more scared than they were willing to make a quick buck by calling in a tip. Hopefully, this operation went better than Enduring Freedom did. 

BLUFOR was about what she expected: local yokels with a lot of heart and little training in a shack off the side road, good enough for skirmishing with the Order's fanatics but dead men walking the moment mercenaries or armored vehicles came into play. Arsala greeted them with a nod, resisting the urge to micromanage how they handled her packaged gear. It was too early to start barking commands, until Spearhead demonstrated its value she was nothing more than a guest to be watched suspiciously. So she just fell in line for dinner, Zaland circling her legs excitedly. 

She had been taught not to treat her K9 as a pet, and she never did. Zaland wasn't a pet; he was her partner. He slept inside just like a human officer would, watched over the house when Arsala wasn't home, and ate at the same time and in the same place she did, whether at the dinner table or in the field. Arsala's filled bowl went ignored as she sorted out Zaland's meal, a bag of protein-dense feed produced and poured into a bowl for him alongside her belongings. Only once Zaland started scarfing his meal down did she begin to pick at her own, sitting cross-legged across from Megan.

"How're we handling surrenders?" she asked, adding to the barrage of questions. "Are we turning anyone who gives up over to the resistance, or are they being shipped Stateside?" 

God she hoped it was the latter. Terrorists didn't always enjoy being the guests of Uncle Sam's penal system, and Arsala couldn't give less of a shit about their comfort, but there were limits. She was a cop after all, and a good one to boot. Turning over a suspect to be dealt with by vengeance-seeking insurgents without some sort of assurance violated her professional and personal code of ethics.  

"Either way, it sounds like I'll be going inside instead of staring at you all through a scope a mile away. Better to have the extra hands on the interior, methinks."

The Chilean had a tendency to fill conversations, Arsala noted, watching him bounce from person to person with questions and comments. It was a stark contrast from her own tendencies; she didn't care much for small talk with strangers, but she wouldn't just ice him out.  

"You'd be a huaso, no? I've only heard vaquero from Mexicans and Spaniards, didn't think it was used in South America."

She spotted his eyeing of Zaland, her partner in turn watching the Chileno curiously. 

"Zaland. He's friendly, but I wouldn't touch him right after he ate. Give him a minute to digest."

With her own meal finished she had begun to make modifications, the Nighthawk holstered at her side pulled free and a strip of rawhide taken from her pocket. She wound the strip tight around the grip safety, permanently engaging it by way of a knot. She liked a high grip on her pistols, high enough that sometimes the safety wouldn't engage. It had happened to her a couple of times at the range, and she made damn sure it wouldn't happen in a firefight.

"I'm surprised to see someone from outside NATO and the major allies, admittedly. But I suppose it's not any stranger than hiring a cop."