13 Hours The Secret Soldiers Of Benghazi (2016)... Today

"Rone," Jack muttered into his comms, his voice low enough to stay under the wind. "You think they’re coming back for a second round?"

"Sun's up," Rone said, his face smeared with soot, eyes bloodshot but clear. 13 Hours The Secret Soldiers Of Benghazi (2016)...

They weren't fighting for a flag anymore. They weren't fighting for a policy or a grainy video that had sparked a riot. They were fighting for the guy to their left and the guy to their right. "Rone," Jack muttered into his comms, his voice

But the GRS team wasn't built for tired. They were built for the "thirteenth hour"—that stretch of time where the world forgets you exist, where no drones are overhead, and no quick-reaction force is screaming across the horizon to save you. They weren't fighting for a policy or a

Jack stood on the roof of the Annex, the matte finish of his rifle cool against his palms. In the distance, the honey-colored glow of the city felt deceptive. Somewhere out there, the Ambassador’s compound was a skeleton of smoke and ash, and the reality of their situation was sinking in like lead.

The humid night in Benghazi didn’t smell like revolution anymore; it smelled like spent brass and diesel.