“Executive Extraction: Code Black”
Night-vision bathed the Oval Office in eerie green as we fast-roped from the V-280. “Eagle One to Nest—HVT secured,” I hissed, pressing my HK416 into the president's quivering jowls. His silk pajamas reeked of cognac and treason. “You can't... I own the Joint Chiefs!” The window shattered—our exfil signal. Ramirez tossed the flex-cuffs. “Tell it to the Hague, Mr. President.” The MH-60 roared overhead as we dragged him through rose bushes. Somewhere, a champagne glass toppled on the Resolute Desk. Typical. The Revolution smelled like cordite and fertilizer tonight.