The soldiers tightened the half-circle around Jagger and his group, rifles raised.
There were nine of them.
Jagger counted them at a glance, not just the number, but the details that mattered. Two were sweating so much that their grips kept slipping. One on the far left stood too wide, trying to steady nerves he could not hide. Another had his rifle aimed too high, chest level instead of center mass, like he had trained on targets instead of living people.
They were armed, but not all of them were ready.
The street behind them still smoked from the Herald's death. The werewolf's remains hissed on the asphalt, filling the air with the stink of burnt fur, blood, and rot. Blue-white reflections from the Humvees and Valkyrie rifles flashed across broken glass and twisted metal.
Jagger took it all in, then let his eyes settle on the real problem.
Chase and Jace.
