Diego’s silver combat knife buried itself three inches deep into the pine trunk, missing the Silver Crest sentry’s throat by a mere fraction of an inch as the guard was yanked silently backward into the shadows.
I lowered my night-vision goggles, signaling three fingers to Miguel and the strike team crouching in the damp underbrush thirty yards behind us.
"Their perimeter rotation is every eight minutes," I whispered. "Alexander is using the old third-regiment patrol protocol. Heavy on the western perimeter, practically hollow on the east. They probably assume the cliff face is unscalable."
Diego retrieved his blade from the tree trunk, turning his gaze toward me. His eyes swirled with that dangerous golden hue that signaled his wolf was sitting right beneath his skin, hungry for blood.
