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

Tyrone "Rone" Woods didn't look up from his optic. "They always come back, Jack. They’re just waiting for us to get tired."

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

Jack nodded, watching the light hit the Libyan coast. They were the secret soldiers—the ones whose names wouldn't be on the morning news, but whose shadows would forever guard that patch of desert. They had survived the night, but they had left a piece of their souls in the shadows of Benghazi.

"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?" Tyrone "Rone" Woods didn't look up from his optic

"Sun's up," Rone said, his face smeared with soot, eyes bloodshot but clear.

As the sun began to bleed over the Mediterranean, Jack looked at the depleted magazines scattered at his feet. They had held. Against the odds, against the bureaucratic silence of the outside world, they had kept the gate. They were built for the "thirteenth hour"—that stretch

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