A group of four was waiting. Max was there, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed over his chest. His usual bravado had vanished, replaced by a sullen, dark expression that confirmed Ramos's story—the local powerhouse had been thoroughly dethroned.
Standing near the centre was a woman who would have been breathtakingly beautiful if not for the violence etched into her skin.
She had a cascade of vibrant red hair and eyes the colour of a forest fire, but a jagged, ropey scar tore across her left cheek and disappeared into the collar of her tactical suit. She watched Thomas with a detached, clinical interest.
Beside her sat Lucy, her posture demure and her hands folded in her lap, though her eyes tracked Thomas with a predatory sharpness she usually kept hidden.
And then there was the leader.
He didn't look like a warrior. He was lean, dressed in a sharp, charcoal-grey suit that seemed out of place in a ruined military base. But his silver eyes were terrifying.
