Chapter 4: Arrival, Shadows, and Questions

"When you're strong enough to fight a dragon with a sword, you worry about winning. But the others—what they fear most is you becoming the dragon."

It was late evening when Anchor and I slipped out of the camp, blending into a tourist group. I didn't get why Command needed us to enter the country so quietly. The mission file clearly said we'd have "local cooperation"—so why the cloak and dagger routine?

"Anchor…"

"Yeah?"

He turned, voice low, eyes searching my face.

"You nervous?" I asked, genuinely unsure.

He steadied himself, big hands folded tight. "Not really, Specter. Why, you feeling off?"

"If local folks are helping us, why sneak in?"

Anchor frowned. "I thought it just said someone would cooperate. Didn't say local."

I shot him a look. "You sure? I practically memorized the file. It said 'local cooperation'—I'm not wrong."

Anchor shrugged, managing a smile. "Maybe I had too much to drink last night. Not exactly sharp this morning."

I eyed him. "You're not usually sloppy."

He nodded, serious now. "Honestly, my head's been pounding since the briefing. Still a little foggy."

We played the part of tourists all the way in—phony IDs, fake laughs, camera slung around my neck. As soon as we cleared customs, we peeled away from the group, ditched our guide, and caught a local bus headed deep into the countryside.

The country was all cliffs and rolling hills, but the interior was smoother—farmland, open fields, scattered lakes and bogs, each with its own legends and dangers. Even in summer, the temperature barely hit 70°F; in winter, it dropped to minus 20, especially in the snowbound mountains where our mission would take us. The people were tough, Catholic, and proud—locals called the place "Europe's Little Lion."

By sunset, we reached a quiet county town—quaint, peaceful, and nearly deserted in the deep cold. At this hour, nobody but ghosts walked the streets. Only a handful of small stores, convenience shops, and one or two bars glowed faintly in the dusk.

Our target was the last bar at the north end of town—a small, red-lanterned place that doubled as our contact site.

Inside, the lights were dim, a handful of young guys hunched at tables. The bartender, head down, kept busy cleaning glasses. Anchor slipped into a seat near the door, scanning exits and faces. I made my way to the bar.

"Evening, sir. What'll it be?"

I was only half-listening, mind focused on the shadows, counting bodies, noting every exit and unfamiliar face.

"Here on holiday?" he asked.

I nodded, "Yeah, just something to warm me up."

He poured a shot. "There's a hostel down the road. Warm bed, good breakfast. You'll need it; tomorrow'll be bright but freezing."

I played along, "Nice lanterns out front—where'd you get those?"

Just then, a heavyset man in a white coat came out from the back room, pipe in his mouth, beard streaked with gray. He looked me up and down, sizing me up. I compared his face to the blurry photo in our file: match.

"Japanese tourists brought those for me. You like them? I can gift one to your friend," the owner said.

"A gentleman never steals beauty from another," I replied quietly, our coded phrase.

He nodded, "Enjoy your stay."

Just like that, we'd made our contact.

At ten, the bar closed. The local kids shuffled out into the cold, looking for the next place to drink. Anchor and I slipped behind the bar with our contact.

"Welcome," he said

I pointed, "We'll need food, maps—both printed and your sketches. And gear; let Anchor check everything himself."

He nodded, bustling off.

I took the maps, sat under a bare bulb, and started studying—routes, terrain, options, contingencies.

Anchor and the contact disappeared into a side room.

The maps showed a mountain pass—our rendezvous with "the cooperative party" would be at the foot of a giant, snow-covered range. Once winter hit, there'd be no one around but us.

Anchor came back, nodded.

I said, "Grab some food, then go fetch the others as they come in."

Anchor looked worried, "You okay here alone?"

I shrugged.

"It's an easy place to find."

"Go"

He left. I worked for hours—marking routes, escape paths, every backup plan I could imagine. When I finally finished, my hands were cramped, brain buzzing.

"You've been at this for seven hours," our contact said, glancing at his watch.

His sudden voice made me jump. I tightened my grip on my pen, eyes narrowing.

"You've been here the whole time?" I asked.

"No, just came in a few minutes ago."

"How didn't I hear you?"

He shrugged, "Maybe you were too focused. Or maybe I just move real quiet for a big guy." He grinned.

"I need sleep," I said, exhausted.

He nodded, "I've got work, too. Dawn's coming."

He left. For a long moment, I just sat there, mind spinning. Had I really been so locked in I'd missed someone entering? Or was something wrong with me after all?

I must have dozed off, hunched over the maps. The noise of the bar filtered through my dreams—a background hum of clinking glasses and muffled voices. Soldiers never sleep deep, just half-dream, half-alert.

Sometime later, Castor and Nox arrived—faces red from the cold, stomping snow from their boots.

"Colder than hell out there," Castor joked, shaking his hands.

Nox scanned the room, eyes resting on me. "Go back to sleep, Specter."

I rubbed my eyes. "Can't sleep now. You guys get in alright?"

"All good," Castor replied.

Nox nodded.

I pointed to the side room. "Gear's there. Go check your weapons."

"Specter, I'm starving," Castor whined, dropping into the seat beside me, using my map as a cushion.

The door creaked.

Castor sprang up; Nox strode to the entrance, hand on the door handle.

"Need something to eat?" Our contact poked his head in, paused when he saw Nox by the door. "Rough night, huh?"

Nox didn't answer.

Castor grinned, "You got something hot? Make it good, boss."

The contact nodded and slipped out.

Castor nudged me, "How's he walk so quiet for a big guy?"

Nox watched the contact leave, then stepped outside to keep watch.

"You see Anchor?" I asked Castor.

He checked his watch, "Should be along soon."

"What about Reaper?"

"Haven't seen him. Maybe he's coming with Bolt."

"Want me to go look for them after I eat?" Castor asked.

"No, don't wander. Eat, check your gear, get ready. We move tonight."

Through the afternoon, the others trickled in. The room filled up fast—Bolt and Nox went out, the rest of us huddled over gear and maps.

Buzz and Castor swapped jokes, giggling like kids. Anchor copied routes into his own notebook, Reaper leaned back, head down, catching a nap.

I called everyone's attention. "Quick question: Did the file say 'locals' would cooperate, or just 'someone' would cooperate?"

They looked at each other, confused.

"Someone!" Reaper replied suddently.

Buzz blinked, "You sure you didn't misread, Specter?"

I sighed. "Maybe I did."

Buzz jumped up, mug in hand, grinning, "No way! Specter missed a detail? That's a first!" He leaned in, squinting at me, "Never thought I'd see the day…"

I pushed his face away.

Buzz kept grinning. "Gotta mark this day down…"

"Alright, rest up. We move out after ten." I stood to leave.

"I'll go instead," Anchor offered.

I shook my head. "No, I need some air."

And just like that, I slipped out into the cold, the plan for the night burning in my mind.