The trail of blood was a bright, violent crimson against the white snow. It didn't look like a drip from a wound; it looked like a spray.
Someone had died here.
Rook moved low to the ground, his eyes scanning the tree line. He was no longer the gentle giant who made coffee; he was a predator. He stepped over a fallen log, inspected a snapped twig, and signaled: 'Three hostiles. Heavy boots. Moving west.'
"And Cassian?" I whispered, my voice barely audible over the wind.
Rook pointed to a different set of tracks. Drag marks. Someone was injured and being helped.
'Moving north. Fast.'
"They split up," I realized. "Cassian tried to draw them away."
We followed the north trail.
The woods were silent, a frozen cathedral of pine and ice. My breath misted in the air. I gripped the 9mm in my pocket, my finger resting on the trigger guard.
We walked for ten minutes. Then, Rook froze.
He raised a fist. Stop.
