The tension in what they called the "Upper Room" was palpable as Ethan, Jag, Vic, Rico, Marcus, and Miriam gathered in the safe house just outside the city. The low hum of the fan was the only sound, an unwelcome reminder of how close they were to the chaos beyond these four walls. Ethan's mind was spinning with possibilities, strategies, and contingencies, but the immediate goal was clear: they needed weapons. And not just any weapons—something heavy enough to breach an Al-Qadah compound.

Jag stood by the window, his eyes scanning the street below as if expecting another ambush at any moment. Vic was cleaning his knife at the table, his hulking presence making the already cramped space feel even smaller. Rico sat beside him, methodically checking his medical supplies, while Marcus leaned against the wall, fiddling with one of his many explosives, a grin still playing on his lips.

Miriam paced the room, her nerves on edge. She stopped in front of Ethan, her eyes full of worry. "How are we going to get Eric back?" she asked quietly, though her voice trembled with a mix of fear and desperation.

Ethan pushed up his glasses and met her gaze, his voice calm and steady, though he felt the weight of her question. "We have a plan. But first, we need firepower—enough to get through their defenses."

"Firepower," Marcus repeated with a smirk, pulling out another small explosive and tossing it up in the air like a toy. "Lucky for you, I know how to make things go boom."

Ethan gave him a look that said not now. Turning back to Miriam, he placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "We'll get him, Miriam. But we have to move fast."

Jag turned from the window, his voice low and urgent. "I've got this guy. Old contact from my merc days. Black-market dealer. If anyone's got what we need, it's him. I've already contacted him after you called me this morning."

Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Can we trust him?"

Jag shrugged. "Trust is a luxury in our line of work. But he owes me, and I'm not asking for favors—just guns."

Vic chuckled, the sound low and rumbling. "Long as the guns work, I don't care where they come from."

Ethan nodded. "Alright. Jag, take the lead. We'll follow your contact. But stay sharp—we're not the only ones who know how to find trouble in this city."

As they prepared to leave, the group moved with the precision of a seasoned unit. It was instinctive—each man knew his role, his place in the mission. But Vic, the newest addition, was still something of a mystery.

* * *

The van they had borrowed from a local fixer rattled down the cracked city roads as night began to fall. The streets were alive with the undercurrents of desperation—people in search of money, survival, and occasionally something darker. This was no place for the faint of heart, and everyone in the van knew it.

Jag drove the van, navigating through the maze of alleyways and backstreets like a man who had done this a thousand times. Ethan sat beside him, his eyes darting between the GPS and the road ahead. In the back, Miriam sat sandwiched between Rico and Vic. The closeness of their bodies forced a kind of intimacy that wasn't there before.

Rico, ever the charmer, smiled at Miriam as she tried to focus her thoughts elsewhere. "You holding up okay?" he asked softly.

Miriam nodded, though her eyes betrayed her anxiety. "I just want to get my son back."

"We will," Rico said, his voice gentle but firm. "You're with the right people now."

For a moment, the two locked eyes, and Rico's usually stoic demeanor softened. His hand brushed against hers, a fleeting but undeniable moment of connection. Miriam's lips twitched into the smallest of smiles, and for the first time in days, a hint of hope flickered in her expression.

Vic, who had been quietly observing from the corner of his eye, shifted in his seat. "You ever been in the middle of a firefight before?" he asked, his deep voice startling Miriam slightly.

She shook her head. "No... Not like this. Not ever."

Vic nodded slowly, as if that was the answer he expected. "You'll be alright. Stick close, listen to Ethan, and when things get messy, stay behind us. You're not here to fight."

The words were simple but filled with an unspoken promise. Miriam looked up at him, appreciating his blunt, no-nonsense attitude. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," Vic grunted, going back to sharpening his knife, his massive hands making the weapon look almost like a toy.

Rico gave Vic an appreciative nod. There was something comforting about having someone like Vic on their side—a human wrecking ball who was as good with a knife as Marcus was with explosives. But he was also a man of few words, and Rico could tell there was more to Vic than just brute strength.

* * *

The van pulled into a dimly lit garage on the outskirts of the city. It was one of those places where the walls were stained with oil and rust, and the air smelled like gasoline and bad decisions. As they stepped out of the van, Jag led the way toward a heavy steel door at the back.

"Let me do the talking," Jag muttered over his shoulder, his hand hovering near his pistol.

Ethan, Vic, and Marcus followed close behind, their senses on high alert. Miriam and Rico hung back, their presence less likely to spook the dealer.

Jag knocked three times on the door, waited a beat, and then knocked twice more. A small slot opened, revealing a pair of dark eyes that glared at them through the opening.

"Jag," the voice behind the door grumbled, sounding less than pleased. "What do you want?"

"Business, old man," Jag replied, his tone casual but firm. "You know the drill."

The slot closed, and after a moment, the door creaked open. The man who stood in the doorway was short and wiry, with a face like a rat and an expression that suggested he was perpetually annoyed. His name was Carlos, though in the underground, people called him "Rat." He eyed the group warily but let them in without further comment.

Inside, the space was cluttered with weapons of every variety—assault rifles, pistols, grenades, crates of ammunition stacked haphazardly against the walls. The place reeked of oil and gunpowder. It was a smuggler's paradise, and for their purposes, exactly what they needed.

Carlos closed the door behind them, then turned to Jag, folding his arms. "You owe me one for this."

Jag shrugged. "Add it to my tab. We need a lot—fast."

Carlos sniffed, walking over to one of the crates and pulling out an assault rifle. "What are you planning, Jag? This is serious hardware. You're going after something big."

"That's none of your concern," Ethan cut in, his voice hard. "We pay, we get what we need. Simple as that."

Carlos glanced at Ethan, clearly not liking the interruption, but he knew better than to push it. He gestured to the crates around them. "Take your pick. But the more you take, the bigger your bill."

"Take whatever you need," Ethan told everyone.

Vic stepped forward, his large hands running over a row of knives, selecting one that fits snugly in his palm. "Nice." He gave a rare smile, the kind that hinted at just how deadly he was with it.

Jag grabbed a sniper rifle, checking the sight. "Carlos always had the good stuff," he muttered approvingly.

As the group armed themselves, filling bags with weapons and ammo, Rico noticed Miriam standing off to the side, her eyes wide at the array of deadly tools in front of her.

"Don't worry," he said softly, coming to her side. "You won't need to use any of this."

She shook her head. "I can't just stand by and watch. I have to do something."

Rico gave her a reassuring look. "Leave the fighting to us. Just stay close. We'll get Eric back. I promise."

Miriam glanced at him, her heart racing. There was something about Rico—the calm in his voice, the way he looked at her. It was as if, amidst all the chaos and danger, she had found an anchor in him. She didn't know why, but she believed him.

The moment was interrupted by Marcus, who was gleefully stuffing his bag with grenades. "You know," he said, flashing his wild grin, "I always did love a good explosion."

Ethan checked his watch. Time was slipping away, and they couldn't afford to linger. "Let's move," he ordered, his voice carrying the weight of command.

* * *

As they loaded the weapons into the van and prepared to leave, the tension in the air shifted. The danger was growing closer, the mission more real with every passing minute. They were ready for battle, but the uncertainty of what lay ahead gnawed at them all.

Vic, sitting in the back with his new knife in hand, glanced over at Rico, who had taken his usual seat beside Miriam. "You two know each other long?" Vic asked casually, his deep voice cutting through the quiet of the ride.

Rico looked at Miriam, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Not long enough."

Miriam blushed, glancing out the window, but a small smile tugged at her lips as well. She didn't say anything, but the connection between them was undeniable. Amid the danger and chaos, something had begun to grow—something unexpected but not unwelcome.

Ethan, watching from the front, made a mental note of the dynamic shifting among the group. It wasn't a problem—yet. But he knew that emotions could complicate things in ways bullets never could.

As they drove deeper into the night, the weight of their mission settled over them like a shroud. They were armed, they were ready—but nothing could truly prepare them for what was to come.