Scottish Highlands, three in the morning.
The snow fell as if the sky had burst.
Mike, the leader of the "Highland Freedom Army," crouched by the stove in the abandoned shepherd's hut, fiddling with the radio with his frozen fingers. The static noise echoed in the cramped space like a ghostly moan.
"No response." He looked up at the other five people in the room, "The 'Alliance' channel has been silent for forty-eight hours."
Ian Macalock poured the last bit of whiskey into his mouth: "They abandoned us. Just like they did with Duncan and Callum in Glasgow."
"Duncan's still alive."
Robbie said, eyes fixed on the fire, "In the photos the police released, he was flipping the bird while being led into the police car. Callum's dead, the autopsy report was in the third edition, three bullets, two in the chest, one in the neck."
The room fell silent for a moment, only the sound of wind and snow tapping against the windows.
"London has dispatched troops."
