At the gang's hideout. 7:35 pm.
The darkness pressed in heavy around the compound, broken only by the orange glow of torches mounted on the perimeter fence and the occasional sweep of flashlights.
The gang's hideout sat like a crouching beast in the center of the field, its two-storey frame weather-beaten but fortified. Beyond its walls, guards prowled like restless wolves, their chatter drifting across the field, careless, unaware of the storm about to break upon them.
Ewan's eyes cut across the lines of men behind him. Each was armed, armored, and drilled into silence. Their breathing was steady, but their eyes—hard, cold, and alert—betrayed the fire burning inside.
"Aiden has moved into position," he whispered, pulling his phone from the side pouch and skimming the last text. The glow from the screen lit his face for the briefest second before he tucked it back. "Hopefully, we'll get feedback from them soon."
