The Murder Factory

Two black combat knives hung at her hips. She seemed to dissolve into the shadows themselves.

WhiskeyTango stayed low, peering through a crack in the jagged ice boulder.

Up ahead, spread across the open ground, stood a massive encampment.

No—calling it a camp didn't do it justice.

It was a fortress welded together from black iron and bone.

The outer walls were patchworked from thick plates of dark