Scott was as grim as the rest when he arrived at the Humvee dressed in 'city' fatigues, the computer generated pattern of greys and blacks designed to blend into the shadows of city architecture. Supposedly, at least. His were well worn, a remnant from his military days, the fabric broken in, comfortable, the body armor it covered somewhat less so. It still carried the faint scent of time in the dessert, that armor, but that was all right. It was reliable. A good luck piece, really. Deep down, Scott was very much a soldier who believed in planning as much as you could, but then trusting in training and luck to get the rest of it right.
As he climbed into the Humvee with the others, he nodded quietly. Like them, he knew what was coming and there was no need to talk. He'd killed enough people, innocent and guilty, in his life that he would do what he had to and trust that those who pointed his gun were picking targets that deserved this.
He wondered, though, if Ghost would be joining them. The kid was a part of the team, or at least had been. He hadn't seen him around since his brief conversation with him. He just hoped if he was coming with them, James was ready for the emo-bullshit-victim crap.