He turns and moves toward Ciaran, and the pack reforms around him as he goes, pulling into the gravity of his direction the way it always does, and I stand in the stone clearing in the pale gray dawn and watch the pack prepare for war.
32
ALDEN
Ansel doesn't say anything when I walk in. He just looks at the blood soaking through the bandage on my left side, then at my face, then back at the bandage, and points at the table.
"Sit."
I obey.
"You popped three stitches," he says, cutting the old bandage away with quick snips of his surgical scissors. "Possibly four. The neck is holding. The shoulder I'll check after." He prods the flank wound with two fingers and I keep my face still. "This is going to need a full reseal. It'll take twenty minutes."
"I don’t have that time," I say.
"You do if you want to stay alive," he says. "Hold still."
Ciaran comes in while Ansel threads the needle, closing the door behind him quietly. He reads the room with a quick sweep of his eyes.
"Six vehicles confirmed at the lower forest road," he says, pulling a folded paper from his vest and spreading it on the side table without being asked. Scout sketches, vehicle outlines, weapon observations. "Two flatbeds, four SUVs with brushguards and roof racks. I'm counting what looks like at least three long rifles per vehicle based on the cases in the truck beds." He taps the sketch. "One of the flatbeds is carrying what might be a generator rig. They're setting up for a sustained operation, not a day hunt."
"How many people?"
"Best estimate is twenty-two to twenty-six. Could be more in the trees." He pauses. "These are not local hunters."
"No," I say. "They're not."
Ansel pulls the first stitch through without comment. The pain pinches, but I ignore it and sit still.
"Do they have weapons other than rifles?" I ask.
"A scout reported at least one vehicle with what looked like a suppressor kit in the open bed. And two men in tactical gear, no hunter orange. Body armor, radios." Ciaran looks at me. "Someone funded this. Properly."
"The syndicate," I say.
"Has to be." He folds the sketch back up. "They moved faster than I expected after Gideon."
"Gideon was their inside man," I say. "When he went down, they lost their intelligence advantage. So, they're pushing forward before we can reorganize." For a brief moment, I look up, working through it. "They need to move now, or they lose the window Gideon’s challenge gave them."
"Which means tonight," Ciaran says.
"Most likely,” I confirm with a nod.
Ansel ties off the second stitch. "You are not fighting tonight," he says.
"I am if I have to," I say.
“I can only do so much to keep you patched up. If you go into battle too soon, you risk a lot more than a few ripped stitches,” Ansel insists.
Ciaran makes a sound that might be a laugh.
“I’ll delegate as much as I can,” I assure.
Ansel stares at me with wide eyes and a parted mouth, but he finishes the flank without arguing, only he pulls the sutures extra tight.
“Ow!” I swat his hand away, but he just moves to the shoulder for a closer exam.
"If the shoulder reopens," he says, tying off the last stitch, "you come back here. Non-negotiable."
