The headlights resolved into the boxy silhouette of a civilian SUV, its engine idling roughly as it lurched through the underbrush. Behind the wheel sat a weathered man in his fifties, flannel shirt stretched across broad shoulders, a face that spoke of decades spent reading wind patterns and animal tracks.
"You two look like hell," he called through the open window, his accent carrying the flat vowels of rural England. "Diana Harrington sent me. Name's Jules."
Liam kept his weapon trained on the driver, studying the man's hands, his posture, the subtle tells that distinguished genuine concern from practiced deception. Something felt off—not about Jules himself, but about the entire situation. Too convenient. Too clean.
"How do we know Diana sent you?" Liam demanded.
Jules reached slowly into his shirt pocket, producing a small device that emitted Diana's voice in clipped, urgent tones: "Jules, grid reference seven-seven-alpha. Package retrieval. Priority one."
