Four hours passed before Zion came upon the strike team.
A shape slipped through the gate, more shadow than animal, settling into fur and bone as it moved. Out of breath, he dropped to his knees, skin replacing pelt without ceremony. With a fingertip marked by old wounds, he traced lines across dusty ground - slow, deliberate, speaking only in curves and edges.
Half a dozen signs. Laid out in something close to a ring, about two miles down and left from the base. Not moving. Keeping still. Staring.
"They're not moving," Sage said. "Why?"
"Waiting," Zion said. Just that. When tactics came up, his words grew longer, yet every one broke through quiet as if pulled by force.
"Waiting for what?"
