A close encounter with a surface-to-air missile is going to ruin anyone's day.
This is especially true when the person involved is strapped into a parachute harness, several thousand feet above enemy terrain, in the middle of the night.
For as long as he could remember, Ronan's personal philosophy had been 'you can't plan for everything, but you should still try to plan for anything.' That approach to life had saved his arse more times than he could count. Still, he'd always known the day would come when his plans reached their limit.
How unfortunate that he was reaching the limit here, of all places.
The early stages of the mission had been perfect.
If things had gone south before they'd even taken off, he wouldn't have been in this mess. If the attack had come while they were still in the helicopter, he'd at least have more options. If, if, if. That wasn't a useful thought.
A person could undo their life all the way back to childhood with wishes like that.
Ronan was aware that his thoughts were heading in entirely the wrong direction. That was understandable given that he was likely suffering from concussive injury and catastrophic blood loss, but understandable is not the same as helpful.
Then again, debating the merits of his own thoughts wasn't exactly helpful, either.
He wondered whether this was what dying felt like.
The missile had exploded on impact with something – or rather…