“How can you stand that stuff?” asked the mounted crossbow-woman on the wagon beside him. She gripped the reins lazily in her gauntleted hands, giving him a look as if he’d just put a bit of horse dung in his mouth rather than the razorback boar jerky he’d had in his inventory.

  “What?” Dean asked, holding the strip of jerky up. “It’s not so bad. Besides, it boosts stats.”

  The soldier shook her head.

  “You’re bolder than me. Monster jerky gives me the runs.”

  “Too much information, Gem,” muttered the swordsman beside her. “We really do not need to know these things.”

  Dean knew him as Brenard, the second-in-command of the Bridgeport Garrison. He was a heavy, and apparently a veteran of the war from thirty years ago. Despite his age, the lieutenant was a fit man, with a cleanly shaven face and a serious disposition that allowed for little joking. He spurred his horse, trotting forward to join stride with Commander Brenna’s mount.

  “He’s chronically no fun,” said Gem, her frown clearly visible beneath her kettle helmet. Her primed crossbow sat next to her, unloaded, bouncing as the wagon made its way over a particularly rough patch of mud.

  “All this recent rain has done us no favors. The road’s clearly shot.”

  The caravan and its ten soldiers had been bouncing along for the better part of a day. They had stopped once to refill canteens and water the horses, but that apparently hadn’t been enough to prevent the painful ache the rough wooden driver's seat was giving him. Every time they hit a bump, he felt as if he was being prodded in the lower back by the pummel of a sword.

  Dean grimaced and adjusted his waist for the millionth time.

  “How far are we from the village?” Dean asked, trying to see past the bobbing helmets of the soldiers in front of him.

  “Not far now,” said Gem. “We’ll be able to tell when we get closer to the fields.”

  “Or by the smoke,” said Dean, pointing a finger. Gem followed his gesture, and her lips thinned.

  “Gods above, that is a lot of bloody smoke,” she muttered. Dean hadn’t been the only one to spot it. Word went down the line, and he saw Commander Brenna twist in her saddle, saying something to her second-in-command. The lieutenant reined in his mount, turning his horse's head and trotting back towards them.

  “Uh oh,” said Gem, her pursed lips turning into a nervous frown.

  “What?”

  “He’s scowling. It’s never good when he’s scowling.”

  “The commander ordered a halt,” he growled as he pulled up beside the wagon. Several of the men in the back grumbled.

  “A halt?” asked Gem, her brows drawing together. “Why’s that? We’re nearly there, aren’t we?”

  The lieutenant glanced towards the smoke on the horizon, his face grim.

  “Because something isn’t right. It’s her instinct, you know. We’ve sent a scout ahead to take a look. If it’s nothing, then it’s nothing.” He shrugged and tapped his heels to his horse, moving on to pass the news to the rear guard.

  Gem sighed and turned to Dean.

  “The commander’s famous instinct. They say she can smell an ambush miles away. That sneaking up on her is impossible, on account of her skills. There are men in the garrison who believe it, but I don’t count myself among them.” She popped the cork on her canteen and took a heavy swallow.

  “Want some?”

  Dean winced as the smell of alcohol hit him. “Is that whiskey?”

  “Scotch.”

  “How long has it been in the sun?”

  Gem considered that.

  “Probably a few hours?”

  “So it’s warm?”

  Gem shrugged.

  “Think I’ll pass.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  She took another few swallows before popping the cap back on and leaning back, putting her boots on the wagon's side. Realizing it would likely be a while until the caravan started moving again, Dean pulled his knife from the sheath on his hip. Moments later, he had his sharpening stone in hand and was running the knife’s length over it at an angle. Gem watched him, her expression curious.

  “You take good care of your gear,” she observed, smacking her lips at the aftertaste of liquor. Dean only grunted, his mind focused on his task. “You’d have made a good soldier.”

  I was a good soldier, thought Dean, amused. A sergeant in a company that doesn’t exist yet in a regiment you’ve never heard of.

  “Maybe.”

  Gem cocked her head as she watched him examine the knife’s edge.

  “But you chose to be an Adventurer instead. More dangerous profession than soldiering these days.” She paused, her face thoughtful. “Unless there’s a war on, I suppose.”

  Dean continued his sharpening motion, adding a bit more water to his whetstone from his canteen. On the road, he’d been more likely to use oil, but he didn’t have any on him. The sound of the sharpening was a rhythm, something tried and familiar to him. It lulled him into a sort of trance, allowing his mind to drift while his hands worked.

  Back and forth. Back and forth.

  A call went up from somewhere down the line. Dean blinked out of his trance, pausing in his motion to glance up. A rider was heading towards them, moving quickly. Gem sat up and reached for the reins.

  “Uh oh,” she repeated as the lieutenant spurred forward to meet the scout.

  “Is he scowling?” asked Dean.

  “Severely.”

  “Form up,” called the lieutenant. There was no longer an air of wait and see, but rather a tension. Dean read it in the commander’s posture and in the way the soldiers at the front gripped their weapons. What was going on?

  “Lieutenant,” Dean called, reaching out to tap the man's shoulder as he trotted by. “Has something happened?”

  The man pushed up his visor, his face grim.

  “Aye. The village isn’t empty,” he said, gripping his reins so tightly his gauntlets creaked. “It seems the attackers have taken up residence there.”

  “The bandits… stayed?”

  The veteran nodded, his jaw tight.

  “And they aren’t alone.” He glanced around at the men before leaning in, his face serious. “They’ve taken prisoners.”

  And he was off before Dean could ask another question. Gem looked slightly sick at the news, staring after the officer with tightly pursed lips.

  “God's balls,” she muttered, reaching up to touch a medallion at her neck. “Saints protect us.” The medal disk depicted a large, muscular man wielding a great warhammer over one shoulder. Haden Vron, the current active Hammer Saint. Some people worshiped the Saints like gods, believing that they were the representatives of the heavens. Divine in their own right, like the imperial family itself. But Dean had seen the Hammer Saint die with his own eyes in that final battle. He knew they bled red, just like every other mortal.

  Dean stowed his whetstone, sliding his knife home in its sheath. If it was a battle to come, then he was ready.

  “Do you think you can do it?” Gem asked. The question caught him off guard, and he pulled his thoughts from the past to the present.

  “Do what?”

  “Kill men, I mean. It’s different, innit. Not the same as slaying monsters. I mean, these are real living, breathing human beings. We might be used to it, but your kind sure ain’t.”

  “I can,” said Dean. And I have. He didn’t say the last part aloud. He’d killed men when he’d had to. Soldiers like him. Soldiers who had deserted. Soldiers who had turned and sided with the enemy. It wasn’t an easy task and never had been. But in the end Dean had learned that this was the cost of war. Mercy was the luxury of the weak. What he fought for was bigger than himself. And when it came to traitors… to those who turned on their own for personal gain or profit. He had no sympathy.

  “He means it too,” quipped Gem, nodding to the men in the wagon behind her. The soldiers chuckled, but Dean could sense a sort of respect from them in the way they now looked at him. The caravan started moving again, and Dean grabbed his sword from where it lay beside him, laying it across his lap. The red-hued blade pulsed subtly, almost as if in excitement at the grim work it would soon do. Dean ignored it.

  “Looks like we’re pulling off the main road,” said one of the soldiers, gesturing towards the lead riders. He was right. The lieutenant had signaled the wagon to pull off with the rest of them, and Gem swore under her breath as the wheels bumped against the uneven ground, nearly dislodging one of the riding soldiers before coming to a stop.

  “Commander wants you,” growled the lieutenant. Gem bit her lip.

  “Is it about the whole whiskey thing? Because it was only a little.”

  “Not you.”

  The man’s eyes flicked to Dean.

  “Him.”

  The commander had dismounted her horse and was standing off from the others, her red hair waving in the wind. Her armor was simple, but it fit her well, and Dean could tell by the way she carried her sword that she knew how to use it. She was speaking with the scout as he approached, her head bent downwards as she listened intently.

  When she spotted Dean, she waved a hand to him.

  “Tell him what you told me,” he said to the scout. The man hesitated, but at her look he straightened.

  “Yes, ma’am. We’ve repeated recon on the valley. The village has been seized, the old mill and the fields burned. What buildings remain have become an outpost for the bandits. They’ve seized the village center and used wagons and debris to block off the entrances.”

  “How many?” asked Dean.

  The man hesitated. “Thirty. Maybe more.”

  “Thirty.” Dean’s heart raced as he realized the implication. Those numbers were high… nearly half of the reported bandit force. And far more than the eleven soldiers they had. Even with the commander and a heavy, those numbers were nothing to sneer at.

  “You said the fields were burned,” he said. “Are they still burning?”

  The scout shook his head, cowl bobbing in the breeze.

  “Negative. The fields were burned days ago. Both them and the mill and outer buildings have gone out.”

  Dean glanced up to the dark cloud still billowing into the air.

  “So what’s causing the smoke?”

  The man grimaced.

  “Pyres.”

  “Pyres,” the commander repeated, her jaw clenched. For the first time, Dean saw the anger in her eyes, in the tight grip on her sword.

  “They are burning the dead?”

  “Not just the dead.”

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  The commander met his eyes, and Dean’s stomach rolled over. He thought he understood now. The reason the commander hadn’t ordered a retreat or sent for reinforcements. That was the logical move, given they were outnumbered and the aggressors. But there was more at stake than simply retaking a town.

  “We can’t leave,” he said, looking at the sky and closing his eyes. “Not if they’re killing hostages.”

  The commander nodded solemnly. “But there is a silver lining, if one could call it such a thing.”

  Dean frowned.

  “Oh?”

  She nodded.

  “One of the buildings that was burned on the outskirts was a Guild hall of some kind. Recon says an Adventurer’s Guild, not one of the big ones, unfortunately, which would explain why it was so easily taken.”

  “And that’s good news why?”

  Commander Brenna smiled grimly.

  “Because some of the Adventurers survived. And it just so happens they want revenge on the men who attacked and killed their entire Guild administration. They’re Iron Rankers, but you’re living proof that rank doesn’t matter if one is competent and powerful. One of my scouts spied them on the hills doing their own recon, and the four of us had a good chat.”

  “Four?” asked Dean, his eyebrow rising.

  “Aye.”

  Dean shifted reflexively, his hand going to his sword as his mana sense flared. A man stood between the sparse trees on the ridge to the left, his green cloak flapping in the wind. Strange, he hadn’t sensed the man’s essence signature. To get so close without Dean sensing him could only mean…

  Dean saw the Iron badge on the man’s cloak first before his eyes slid upwards and landed on the pointed ears. His jaw dropped open.

  “Hello, old friend,” said Finn. Then he grinned, displaying pointed teeth. “Nice of you to join us for a bit of murder.”

  An hour later, Dean crouched on the slope of a rocky hill overlooking the burned-out husk of the village. Forty feet below him, the charred, blackened buildings on the outskirts stood abandoned beside the fields that were once filled with corn and grain.

  They, too, had been burned, leaving only ash and scorched earth like scars across the land. It was a sight he’d seen all too often on the remnants of battlefields. Each side sowing destruction as they salted fields, burned villages, and left the land a shell of itself, all to deprive the enemy of resources.

  A war of attrition. That’s what Captain Ripley had called it. But Dean had seen the desecration left behind in the wake of the Numerian and demon army alike, and all it made him feel was hollow.

  “You alright?” asked Finnegan, shifting on the rock beside him. Dean rubbed at his eyes, dispelling thoughts of the past.

  “I’m fine. It’s just a shame seeing beautiful things destroyed.”

  “I know what you mean.” Shae sat with her back to a nearby tree, her eyes on the dissipating smoke as it wafted through the darkening sky. She wore a new set of armor, this one different than the one Dean had seen her in. It was reinforced, the shoulder pauldrons and gauntlets studded to add an extra layer of protection. Her helmet was off, and she rolled it between her hands.

  “I grew up not far from here. It’s the largest village in these parts, and the largest supplier of corn and local grain. Before winter, it wasn’t uncommon to see a line of carts and oxen coming down the path from the hills. There were tradesmen, merchants, bakers, hell, even cattle farmers looking to buy discarded corn to fatten their herds before winter slaughter.”

  She tightened her grip on her helmet.

  “I keep asking myself why. Why here? What could bandits want in a place like this? These small-town folk never hurt anyone, never did anything to deserve being raided and slaughtered in the streets. I kept trying to give meaning to it all, you know? But there is none, is there? It’s all just senseless violence.”

  Dean glanced back at her, torn between the truth and a white lie that might lessen the pain. In the end, he chose a more practical answer.

  “Greed is the reason,” he said. “You’re right about that. This town may be small, but southern folk are hardy. When push came to shove, it’s unlikely that the villagers were willing to yield. So the bandits do what evil men do. They took what they wanted by force.”

  His gaze came to rest on the bonfire he could now see in the center of town, around which several figures stood. They were men alright. Men in heavy armor with horned helmets, gathering up the bodies of the dead. Dean watched as they tossed the corpse of a woman into the bonfire, causing the flame itself to flare.

  “So they died because they stood up to their tormentors. Go figure.” Shae’s voice was hard, but Dean saw the moisture in her eyes. These were people she had known. Men and women she’d grown up only a town over from. He wished there was something he could say to her, but he knew from experience that no words would satisfy her. Now, there was only action. Action and revenge.

  “Did you try contacting the Guilds?” he asked, directing his words to Finn. A muscle jumped in the archer’s jaw, and he exhaled through his nose before replying.

  “We did that much, and more. We sent letters to the governor asking for aid and put a contract out for one of the big Guilds. We put up our own money too. Not a fortune, but it should have been enough to at least open a conversation with one of the local Guild masters.”

  Dean frowned.

  “You received no response at all?”

  Finn laughed, the sound hollow.

  “Oh, there were responses. But none of them were sympathetic. It would seem the bigwigs believe that since our local run Guild had jurisdiction in this area, that this was a matter they should settle themselves ‘internally.’ Claimed it was outside of their area of operation.”

  Dean leaned over and spat on the stone, making Finn raise a brow.

  “That’s a load of hogshit, and they know it. Guilds can operate in any territory if given imperial sanction to do so. If it were a matter of legality, then it could have been negotiated after the fact. They just wanted to leave the competition to crash and burn.”

  “Don’t I know it. The saddest part is that we weren’t their competition. Not really. Guilds as large as the Thousand Knives and the Lion’s Mane have Guild houses in every major city in Numeria, and some in between. They have hundreds, if not thousands of employees, and several hundred active Adventurers at any given time. Our local shop had only four Adventurers. Us, though we hardly qualified before the exam, and one other.”

  Dean perked up.

  “There’s another Adventurer with your Guild? Have you been able to get in contact with him?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” said Shae curtly. “That’s him there.”

  She pointed across the land, and Dean followed the gesture until he saw a long pine pole stuck into the ground. A corpse hung from it, pinned by the shaft of a spear. An Iron badge glinted in the light of the dropping sun.

  “Ah,” said Dean apologetically. “I didn’t… I’m sorry.”

  “It’s alright.” Shae gathered her feet beneath her and stood up, tossing her helmet from one hand to the other. “He wasn’t a bad man, but he was a drunk. Had a penchant for passing out with his trousers off. A bit garish, really.”

  “Is that why his trousers are off now?”

  “More than likely.”

  “Still sad,” murmured Ten. The monk hadn’t spoken for most of the time they’d been sitting there. Instead, he had been drawing symbols in a space he’d cleared in the dirt, muttering and making strange hand gestures that Dean didn’t recognize. “Blessing the dead,” that’s what Finn had called it when he asked. More than likely, some sort of monk ritual.

  Ten brushed the dirt from his hands, clapping them in front of his face twice and bowing his head before rising.

  “It was good of you to bless the dead, T,” said Finn approvingly. “At least we know those who were killed in the senseless violence were honored. Bastards didn’t even have the decency to treat the corpses with respect.”

  His hand tightened on his bow.

  “They need to be taught a hard lesson. You’d think the very empire that burned elven “invaders” for daring to set foot across its borders would be up to the task of putting down insurrection within its own lands. And yet, here we are. Facing this threat alone.”

  Dean grunted in agreement as he recalled the words that the commander had spoken several nights before. The governor hadn’t wanted to intercede in southern affairs. The Riverlands had only been a part of the empire for a hundred years, and any civil unrest that the south suffered was considered its own problem. At least, until it wasn’t.

  Dean had seen it firsthand when Haven had fallen. That day had been nothing but fire, brimstone, and misery as the demonic ork horde led by the Red Rage himself had laid waste to it. He remembered the smell of burning bodies, the sight of bodies lining the streets, of children screaming for their parents. The memories chilled him to the bone. And yet, where was the empire then? It had taken the emperor too long to deign to respond, and by then the ork horde had retreated back into the rift, leaving the Riverlands a wasteland.

  That had been the first nail in the coffin for the Numerian Empire. With its southernmost ports and largest import of food gone, it wasn’t long before the other provinces were brought to their knees. It was a long and drawn-out process. In the end, the empire had gone out with more of a whimper than a bang.

  “And you’re sure there are still live hostages?” Dean asked, posing the question he’d been gnawing on for a while. “I don’t mean to be a pessimist, but there are a lot of bodies.”

  “I’m sure.” Finnegan pointed to the large, barn-like structure in the village center. “They are being kept in that warehouse. Food and water go in there once a day and don’t come back out. Only empty bowls and cups.”

  Dean sat back on his heels, his mind turning over the facts.

  “But why? Why take hostages at all? If it were loot that they were after, you’d think they would have taken it and fled the place.”

  “Maybe to use as negotiation?” Finn shrugged. “Who can know?”

  “But why negotiate? What is it they hope to gain here?”

  None of the others had any answers, so Dean dropped the topic, setting about to the task of checking his gear instead, while Finn kept watch. It wouldn’t be long now. They were told the first leg of the plan would happen at sundown. Still, he couldn’t help but shake a feeling of unease.

  “It’s good to see you, you know,” said Shae from beside him. She was fiddling with something in her hands, looking more sheepish than she ever had.

  “It’s good to see you too,” Dean smiled, despite himself, and tapped the badge pinned to her shoulder. “And you’re an Adventurer now, I see. What class did you choose?”

  Her lips curved upwards, and she tapped the war axe now strapped to her back.

  “Path of the hammer. Though you know, it turns out all heavy weaponry applies. Even maces and clubs. Can you believe it?”

  Dean grinned.

  “Once a heavy, always a heavy, huh? Your father would be proud.”

  Her eyes snapped to his, and he saw a flash of surprise in them before her throat bobbed and she looked away.

  “You think so?”

  “I do.”

  “Yeah, well. You’ve done pretty well for yourself. Who’s your patron deity? No, let me guess. Valnir? No, it’s Hanzo isn’t it?”

  She waited expectantly but Dean only stared back at her.

  “You’re not going to tell me are you?”

  “Not really.”

  Shae sighed.

  “Fine then, keep your secrets.” She pulled on her helmet, fiddling with the straps as she adjusted the visor. The helmet made her visage look powerful, war-like, even, and Dean thought it suited her.

  “You could join us, you know,” she said after a moment. Dean noticed Finn tilt his head slightly and realized the half-elf was listening in. “In the Guild, I mean. We’ll have to rebuild of course, and it might take some time. But there would be a contract in it for you. If you wanted it, I mean.”

  For a long moment, Dean considered it. It was a good enough offer, and although the local Guild wouldn’t pay the rates that the larger ones did, it would give him some form of legitimacy. He’d no longer have to wander looking for contracts.

  It would certainly make his life easier. And yet...

  “I appreciate the offer,” he said, meaning it. “But I value my freedom too much to sign with any Guild or agency. It might be odd, but it’s who I am. And that is something I can’t change.”

  “I figured you’d say something lame like that.” She prodded him with an armored boot, and Finn chuckled to himself.

  Shae frowned at him.

  “What did I say about eavesdropping?”

  “It’s not eavesdropping when you’re standing fifteen feet away and I’m an elf,” he grumbled, annoyed. “You should hear yourselves from my end. You’re practically shouting.”

  Shae rolled her eyes.

  “Besides I knew he wouldn’t bite. Dean’s in contract with a lord now, didn’t you hear? He rescued the man’s son, apparently. From goblins no less. Nasty buggers.”

  “That’s true. Finn was sure he’d seen signs of them down in the valley, but when we looked, we couldn’t find any evidence. At least now we know it might have been something of substance.”

  Dean frowned.

  “Wait, you saw signs of goblins here? What was –”

  “Shhhh.” Finn flapped an arm at them, and Dean and Shae had the presence of mind to duck out of sight. Voices were drifting up to them from the scorched field below. Several armed men were coming down the path. A single torch crackled before them, illuminating the scene. They were leading someone, or rather, driving them was more accurate. Dean recognized the soldier as one of the commander’s scouts, although the man had changed out his armor for more average traveler's clothes. His hands were bound tightly behind his back, and when he stumbled, one of the armored men kicked him in the back.

  “Fuckin’ move,” the man growled, his voice ringing from beneath his jagged helmet. Like the others, his helmet had small cow horns set into it, the tips dipped in black ink. A stylistic choice, Dean supposed. As setting something so heavy into a helmet would only serve to throw off the armor’s balance.

  The scout scrambled to his feet only to be jerked forward by the rope lead around his neck.

  “Walk faster or I’ll cut off your feet, and see how you walk then,” said the bandit, clearing his throat and hawking spit in the direction of his prisoner.

  “Fucking villagers, every day we catch another one that thought they could outsmart us. Running and hiding like hares on hunting day. I swear these small-town bumpkins wouldn’t know how to lace their boots if you didn’t do it for them. Why do we have to bother keeping them alive, eh? Waste of bloody supplies if you ask me.”

  “Good thing nobody asked you then,” responded the second bandit. He was the fatter of the two, though the meat on his arms made it clear he’d put a lot of work into his strength stat.

  “Seriously, why the hell does the chief care? Does he not trust us to do this on our own? Think we need those fucking things watching us? Well, I saw screw that.”

  “Do you ever shut your mouth? If Luca hears you talking like that, he’ll string you up and make you wear your guts as a necklace.”

  “Sounds like a nice guy,” whispered Finn. Dean fought not to crack a smile. As he passed the ridge, the scout subtly glanced upwards, meeting Dean’s gaze and giving a cut nod. Neither of the bandits seemed to notice the gesture, but it released some of the tension in Dean’s chest. If the plan had been compromised or if the main camp had been attacked, there would have been a signal sent out. At least now he knew things were supposedly proceeding to plan.

  “Now what?” asked Shae as the voices faded. “We just sit and wait?”

  Dean nodded.

  “As I see it, one of two things will happen. Either he succeeds at infiltrating the hostages and manages to cause a little mayhem from within to give us an opening. Or, they realize he’s a plant and they kill him in the most horrible way imaginable.”

  “God's balls,” muttered Finn. “Is that all?”

  The torchlight was bobbing closer now, and Dean found himself tensing once more as the guards stationed on the outskirts of the village fort came forward. An exchange of words followed, and the scout was shoved down into the dirt, his shirt stripped off him as the guards searched him roughly.

  “Come on,” muttered Dean, biting his lip. “Take the bait.”

  One of the bandit guards drew a knife from his sheath.

  “Oh shit,” whispered Shae. But rather than gore the scout from groin to throat, he instead grabbed at the man’s wrist, cutting something into it.

  “What the hell is he doing?” hissed Finn, leaning forward over the ridge with a look of horror on his face.

  “Bandit’s brand,” said Dean, tapping the inside of his wrist. “It’s a way of identifying targets or marks, something used in the underground. It’s likely how they keep an accounting of hostages.”

  “And you know this… how?”

  It took Dean a moment to realize the others were looking at him.

  “Uh,” he said, “Would you believe me if I told you I read it in the library?”

  “Not a chance,” said Finn before pointing. “I think it worked, look.”

  Indeed, the bandit guards had moved aside a set of heavy wagons, and the scout was being forced between them, stumbling as a guard laid a spear to his back. Dean could have sworn he heard sobbing.

  “He’s really committed to the bit,” said Finn glumly. “Either that or he’s snapped under pressure.”

  “He’s a soldier, he’ll be fine,” said Shae, but even she sounded uncertain. Ten let out a breath and folded his legs, dropping into a meditative squat.

  “Let me know when killing starts,” he said. “Until then, I rest.”

  “I thought monks were supposed to be pacifists,” quipped Finn, raising a brow at him. “You seem awfully eager to get the job done.”

  Ten cracked one eye regarding the half-elf with one of his cool ten-mile stares.

  “Not pacifist,” he said. “Passive fist. Monks learn to fight, train hard. Never ever hit first. You hit first, though, then...” He made a violent punching motion. “Then fist.”

  Dean nodded.

  “Understandable, really.”

  As the heavy wagons creaked back into place, Dean couldn’t help but feel a thrill of excitement. The first part of the plan had succeeded. Now the infiltration could begin. If the scout managed to pull this off, they would be in the prime position to strike from both sides. If they maintained their element of surprise, then there might just be the opportunity to limit their casualties and any hostage deaths.

  Dean wasn’t sure how long it would take, but he knew what signal to look for. Folding his legs beneath him, he joined his friends as he waited for the call. Soon, very soon, they would strike.