Mercer looked at her team. Four women, one man—the “Cigirls,” a moniker they’d earned not from vice, but from their signature move. Back in training, they’d been squad H6-C. A bored supply sergeant had scrawled “H6 C-Girls” on a manifest, and the joke stuck: they could get you out of any situation, even if it meant lighting a fuse and walking away.
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Tank grinned. “Make it two.”