Charlie pressed against a frost-covered pine as the sun retreated. He peeled back his gloves to check his watch; the night air chewed on his exposed skin. The second hand rotated twice. He nudged his brother. John hooked his rifle over his shoulder and pulled his balaclava down. In three strides he disappeared into the woods. Charlie checked his watch again. Time to go.
Thirty miles of forest stretched in front of him, interrupted only by a single undocumented dirt track slicing between the trees. At the end of the road a twelve-foot barbed wire gate and fence encircled a three-mile-wide dip in the terrain. The site was marked only with a battered Private sign hanging loosely across the gate, pretending that the road beyond was nothing but a dead end. Charlie knew better. The fence was in
