“Mosquitoes?” Galen grumbled under his breath, slapping at one that was trying to bite him. Marc’s reply was a finger to his lips before they started moving toward the compound. The ground was soft—the result of seasonal rains, Galen suspected—but firm enough that his boots didn’t sink into it more than half an inch.
Galen stopped suddenly, gripping Marc’s arm. He pointed, getting a nod in return from Marc, then they inched forward to where a man—a shifter—was leaning against the thick trunk of a cypress tree. Marc signaled for Galen to wait, then stepped into view beside the shifter, gaining his complete attention. As planned, the moment that happened, Galen came up behind the shifter. He had his Bowie knife in hand, using it to s***h the shifter’s throat. He almost gagged when blood pou
