"I talked to Joyce. The merc you hanged -- his friends are coming for you."

"Pft!" A spray of beer. "So were the local gangs. The fuckin' Barmy Army and the Madre scum. You've been out there. Seen any around?"

"Yeah? Where are they now, huh?" He points South. "Sent back to Madre in an airtight cargo crate."

"These people are trained military professionals. Special forces, as you said. They're not a gang, or a Barmy Army."

"No, they're not. They're un-coordinated and drunk. Don't forget: we're listening in on their communications. Their shit is way apart."

"No, they're not. They're un-coordinated and drunk. We know more about them than you think."

"These people are trained military professionals. With decades of combat experience. They're not a gang, or a Barmy Army."

"Forget I mentioned it, it was probably nothing."

"Goddamn right it's nothing. The fuck are they gonna do? We got ten thousand men in the Union."

Evrart said there were two thousand three hundred and seventy two Union members. But whatever keeps their spirits up.

It's probably more like two or three thousand. But whatever keeps their spirits up.