The soldiers were scared as hell. Fake explanations crowded their minds—stories they would tell later to the other officials. If they pinned it all on Armstrong, they'd be fine. It was easier than explaining how someone's head had blown apart without anyone lifting a finger.
But that was the least of their worries.
Their fighter had collapsed—killed in the very place he'd come to dominate—leaving the battlefield completely unbalanced. If they stayed, armstrong would killvthen. No question about it.
Silently, they began tapping each other's shoulders and backs with their forefingers, nodding to the right. Everyone understood the signal, they needed to get out of the Mutts.
And to make it even better Armstrong never noticed, he was too busy trying to help the pinned-down Ross—the perfect picture of a damsel in distress.
Above all, they needed a plan.
