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Summary
She sits across the booth from the three men, damp clothes clinging to her like a second skin.
She focuses her attention on Captain John Price, who she worked favorably with in the Middle East. The rest she can't say the same about, as at first glance, they seem to be as promising as their tolerance of alcohol.
From left to right she spares a glance to see what she is working with. A tanned man with a warhawk drinking down a pint of beer like it's his last night alive, another whose nose twitches like a bunny—cigar inbetween his fingers, eyeing down the clown on his left, and on the far right, sitting on the edge is perhaps the most emo man she's ever seen. And the biggest, too.
"Am I supposed to be impressed?" she laughs, tilting her head questioningly towards the senior. He sighs, expecting her response, turning his head to his men. The tan Scot and the dark-skinned British bloke stare, offended at the American.
"Could say the same 'bout you," the one on the far right fires.
She glares, having expected him to remain silent. "Fuckin' Brits."
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He's a lieutenant British military operator. She a Sergeant whose K-9 is a lieutenant. Naturally they hate each other.