Sasha, a few meters ahead of them, glances back over his shoulder at them with an annoyed look that attempts to be quelling. But then he suddenly draws up short, throwing out a hand, and the rest of the squad goes utterly still.

Cetagandan. Sasha doesn't even have to breathe the word. There's one emerging from the foothills only half a kilometer west of them, just the one, head ducked against the chill wind and something clenched in his fist, clearly headed back to base.