The night was cold, thick with silence and suspicion. Winter moved fast, his coat flapping behind him as he kept to the edges of the crumbling stone walls.
The lamps had been dimmed across the sector—some blown out completely during the recent unrest. It gave him cover but added to the unease.
He didn't want to drag Sam into this. Not yet. Not when this had the potential to spiral violently. Sam had always been more healer and informant than fighter, and Mike—just nineteen—was still wet behind the ears. This needed someone solid, someone dependable.
Richard.
He checked his watch: 11:06 p.m. The clock was ticking.
He took a detour through a back alley, pressing against shadowed walls, feet silent on the gravel. Ahead, two figures in black military jackets lingered under a dim lamp. Winter slipped his access card from his coat and approached.
"Orders?" the first asked, rifle resting on his shoulder.
