A pile of 7.62 bullets scattered about on the floor clinked against the van's metal frame as it rocked over the rough roads of the outskirts of Los Angeles.
"Ta'akad min dakhiratak!" Yahya yelled, fastening the last rifle magazine onto his vest. No one answered him; no one needed to. The van fell silent again, broken by the occasional clinks of rolling brass. Yahya ran his finger along the wooden finish of his rifle, the neon white sign reading "Saint Moore's Veteran Retirement Home" shedding a streak of light through the rainy night and into the van. The van's chassis recoiled forward as it screeched to a stop. Pulling on the door handle, Yahya led his men outside, the pouring rain streaking like blood down their black face masks.
"I could have brought a better costume for this…" Saleh said, patting the bundle of grenades wired together on his chest.
"Focus," Yahya told him, his voice muffled by his gas mask. A second van pulled up to their side, another half a dozen armed men stepping out of it, same uniforms, same intent. The leader of the second group walked up to Yahya, having two red streaks on his mask just like him. "For Sana'a," the man said.
The see-through doors of the nursing home slid open, and a shadowy, lanky figure with a blue nurse's uniform stormed out, marching towards the group. "Excuse me! This is the hundredth time I've told someone this today! You can't park…" A thunderbolt in the distance flashed a streak of light across the retirement home; for a heartbeat, everything was frozen, weapons, faces, intent. Another flash pierced the night. The woman fell. Choking on her own blood as Yahya stepped over her twitching body. His sight not breaking from his rifle's scope as the group barged their way inside.