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a little less sane.
    Tarras asked carefully, “You felt it?”
    “It’s my amulet,” Ehwoord told him, as if that was explanation enough.
    “Then they’ve found the overflow installation.”
    “Perhaps. Or Yoske became careless between here and there.” Ehwoord’s mouth tightened. “I needed that network up and running. I need those cameras. After a time, if Yoske doesn’t return, you’ll see to it.”
    Tarras cleared his throat. “Of course. I’ll take a team and—”
    “No,” Ehwoord snapped, and Ciobaka blinked at his emphatic tone. Interesting, to see Ehwoord ruffled. Interesting, to see that Tarras feared. “We hardly need half a posse tramping around in the woods if the Sentinels have found the installation. You may, however, take Ciobaka. He can warn you of Sentinel presence long before you detect them. They are, at all times, far too cocky about their presence in woods such as these.”
    “Wahnnah!” Ciobaka said, and barked an exclamation as his tail quivered in anticipation. “Ouwwtah!”
    “Out,” Ehwoord said, flaunting his human tongue and lips. “And yes. Of course, you will wear the collar—and you still bear the obedience amulet within you. If your behavior is less than exemplary, there will be punishment upon return.”
    Ciobaka flattened his dingoesque ears, crouching slightly in the submission that Ehwoord wanted to see. But he flexed his newly mobile dewclaw thumb, pondering the buckle to his electric collar—and made sure Ehwoord saw that not at all.

Chapter 5
    I n truth, Ruger had only meant to stop the Core minion from pulling the amulet from his pocket. If the man hadn’t triggered the thing in hand, he’d still be alive.
    He’d been a handsome man—as were many of the Core, in a snake-oil kind of way. Not because of their strikingly swarthy skin—more olive than Mariska’s stunning complexion, not as dark—but from the affectation of their hair, slicked back into a short queue and always black, whether natural or dyed. And the silver jewelry, heavy at wrist and neck and ear.
    And their ubiquitous suits. Especially in the high-level posses—those serving the regional drozhar or even the Septs Prince, leader of them all. High sheen, beautifully cut...always just a little bit I think much of myself.
    Not that this man was any of those things any longer. His black hair had gone dry and brittle; his skin taut, dry walnut stretching over bone. His clothes had been woodsy enough, the camo jacket over fatigue pants and a black T. But whatever else he might have had to tell them, they’d lost it when his tongue dried up. All they’d ever know was that this place wasn’t quite as abandoned as they’d thought it to be.
    “He’s safe,” Ian said, coming to inspect the man now that he’d cleared the installation’s entrance of security workings. “I’ll leave the rest of it to you.”
    Ruger hadn’t expected Mariska to display any squeamishness over the chore, and she didn’t. She leaned over to search the man, displaying her truly fine ass in the process. Ruger watched until he realized the riveted nature of his gaze, and scowled as he moved off across the swale. “I’m going to take a look inside with the AmSpecs. Let us know what you find.”
    “Nothing so far,” she said, all business, her voice muffled as she bent to her task—and as he put distance between them. “Whatever he was up to, I don’t think he’s going to give us any clues.”
    One of Ian’s poorly introduced AmSpecs waited by the entrance. It turned out to be a substantial door set within the rocks at the base of the opposite slope, obscured by light and shadow and a truly clever camouflage of combined paint and netting. Of course, Forakkes wouldn’t expect anyone to get this close, given the deterrent workings he’d had set in the area—and likely no one had, until now.
    “Jack Ivers,” the man said, as Ruger approached. “AmSpec grunt. Glad to meet you.” He grasped the inset latch