Moreau sat alone in the last carriage, boots resting on a satchel of dossiers, fingers crossed eyes fixed on nothing.
He will soon reach Paris which will be the last phase of his plan.
The senior commander of French Army as well as young officers.
Ahead of him were questions.
Behind him revolution.
But the story wasn't with him now.
It belonged to the others.
They had fanned out like wolves into the dark.
Colonel Alexandre Delacroix stood beneath a crumbling stone archway in Toulouse, the rain pouring down the long coat stretched over his frame.
A man approached slowly lean, older, his uniform gone but not his bearing.
"Alex," the man said with a frown. "Thought you were in exile."
"I am," Delacroix answered. "So are you, Jean."
Jean laughed bitterly. "Retirement's just a fancier prison."
"I'm not here for memory," Delacroix cut in. "I need bodies. Veterans. The kind that remember what betrayal tastes like."
Jean tilted his head. "You with Moreau?"
