Hale sat on the wooden bench outside the watchtower, shadows cast over his eyes, a rag moving slowly across the body of his rifle.
Wipe. Turn. Wipe again.
The motion was steady, practiced. He had done it a thousand times before. The metal caught the light as he worked, but his eyes were not on the weapon.
They were on the compound.
People moved through the yard below. Guards switching posts. A few workers hauling supplies from the storage building. Smoke drifted from the cooking fires near the mess hall.
It looked like any other day.
Except it wasn't.
Three people were missing.
Adrian. Aubrey. Isabella.
Days had gone by, and none of them had come back.
Hale's jaw tightened slightly.
He remembered the conversation with Aubrey before she left. The way she looked at him when she asked about Adrian.
He had brushed it off.
His own man with his own problems.
That was what he told her.
…Or maybe it had been harsher than that.
The rag slowed in his hand.
