The hum of the engine was steady beneath Zubair's hands.
He liked it that way—low, even, the kind of rhythm that carried men farther than fury ever could. A truck that ran smooth meant fewer surprises, and he had learned long ago that surprises got men killed faster than bullets.
But it wasn't the engine that kept his eyes moving. It was the horizon.
Smoke curled upward in dark, uneven lines far off the road. Too thick for a cooking fire, too jagged for the clean, sweeping trails of a pyre.
This smoke had the frantic, broken pulse of something taken, torn apart, and burned as a warning to all.
He adjusted his grip on the wheel and didn't bother to comment.
If he had seen it, the others had too.
Elias with his maps always noticed the patterns of the land, Alexei never missed a chance to point out trouble, and Lachlan—well, Lachlan saw everything and laughed about half of it.
