I observed him closely for the first time. The head beneath that sandy hair was long, a predator’s skull. His features were pinched—they’d circled in on themselves—and a scar curved forward from his chin, short and narrow, from a knife, not shrapnel. He didn’t smile or offer much expression and I doubted that he ever did. No wedding ring, no jewelry. I noted remnants of stitching where insignias had been removed from his green jacket. I supposed that it was a personal favorite and that he’d had the garment for years. His narrow hips were encircled by a worn canvas belt. It held a special holster—a clamp basically, fitted for a silenced pistol—and a number of magazine holders, along with a knife and several small boxes whose purpose I couldn’t guess. Unlike Ryan Kessler, Pogue didn’t constantly tap or fidget with his weapons. He knew where they were if he needed them. On the ground beside him was a battered dark nylon rucksack, whose contents were heavy. I’d heard a clank when he’d set it down.
