The hum of morning life filled the air—light chatter, the occasional clink of a cup meeting its saucer, and the hiss of an espresso machine from inside the café. John Price leaned back in his chair, his cap pulled low, shadowing his weathered face. His hand rested casually on his coffee cup, fingers tapping against the ceramic as he listened to Kate Laswell speak.

"Satellite feed's been spotty," Laswell said, her voice low but steady. She glanced around the bustling café, more out of habit than suspicion. "If we don't get a clean image, we’re going in blind. Not ideal."

Price grunted, lifting his cup to his lips. "Nothing's ever ideal. We’ll make do." His voice carried the gravelly weight of someone who’d seen one too many missions go sideways.

Across from them, the lone empty table was claimed by a group of teenage boys. Price’s eyes flicked toward them briefly as they arrived, always alert but careful not to stare. One of the boys, had two thick leashes in his hand, attached to equally thick-necked Cane Corsos. The other boys wrangled a Belgian Malinois, a Doberman, and a towering black Great Dane, each dog sitting obediently at their feet as if trained soldiers themselves.

Laswell caught his glance but didn’t stop talking. "The window’s tight. We’ll have less than eight hours to extract and exfil. You think Garrick’s ready for that kind of pressure?"

Price set his cup down and leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. "He’ll handle it. He’s got the grit for it. Just needs a bit more polish."

The boys at the other table laughed over something scanning the café.

Laswell nodded, pulling out her phone. "I'll fill you in when we're back at HQ. For now, enjoy the coffee. Might be the last decent one we get for a while."

Price gave a quick glance towards the boys again, but the boys were just boys enjoying their morning.

"Yeah," he muttered, lifting the cup once more. "Gotta savor the quiet when we can."