Alexei mapped the watchtowers next.
He could peg two reliable snipers in the higher platforms: one on the south mast with a clear view of the approach road, one on the north tower watching for horizon movement.
Both had rigs that used the tank seams for partial cover.
He scribbled positions on the pad in his mind: south tower two men, north tower one with an assistant; platform ring manned with six at shoulder level; two roving pickups with flamers on standby near the western cage line.
He crouched deeper and crawled a careful arc to the nearest crate stack, until he could see the faces under hooded helmets.
He took mental photographs: a thin man with a shaved head and a blood-line scar, a broad-shouldered grunt with goggles pulled up on his forehead, a kid with a headset who never stopped moving.
Machine rhythm.
Supply rhythm.
He moved like someone cataloguing for a ledger. Or someone preparing to cash in a debt.
