After two days of watching, Mason had seen enough. The town sent one and maybe two groups of raiders, one that came back within half a day, the other likely gone for longer. Both had now returned. A final group patrolled the town’s borders and nearby terrain, and each group consisted of at least four players, sometimes a civilian or two.

Kiaan had found Mason at the end of the second day, moving close enough to be detected then stopping until Mason nodded him forward.

“Greetings, patron,” he’d whispered. “I found one of the raider groups, and they had knowledge of your brother. They say he’s inside.”

Mason nodded, flooded with relief.

“You know their leader. Could I negotiate for my brother?”

Kiaan considered this, then frowned. “You sent your woman inside?”

“I did.”

“He will never give her up for any reason. And he will hold your brother hostage to make you do as he wishes.”

Mason nodded, slightly annoyed, watching the group of raiders as they picked their way through the trees. They moved offensively slowly; they chatted and joked and whistled, and paid about as much attention to their surroundings as teenagers on their phones. In short, they were very powerful, or in a great deal of mortal peril.

“You can tell what tier they’re in, correct?” he whispered to his civilian scout as they watched. “How do they compare to me?

Kiaan frowned. “It’s difficult to say.”

“Why?”

“They are mid-tier, which means around half the world’s players are stronger, half weaker, according to the ranking. You are in the top.” Here he shrugged. “But how does a mid tier player compare to a top tier player in power? I cannot say.”

Mason nodded. This made sense, not that it made any difference. Blake was in there against his will, almost certainly, his friends all likely dead. He’d survived somehow because…because he was Blake, and he’d had a horseshoe up his ass from birth. But he wouldn’t have taken the deaths of his friends lightly, and he’d only be living with their killers because he had no choice.

Mason would kill them just for that. He would die for his brother, and he’d certainly kill for Haley, who he’d now put in their clutches. “The die is cast,” he grinned, thinking again of something Blake would say, not actually knowing what it was from. Probably something to do with role playing games.

So he followed the next group of raiders, watching, and waiting. He let them go and returned to Nassau, then watched the second group of raiders leave, joking and calling to each other as they went.

He could have started, then. But Mason was a patient hunter. He waited for the patrollers that always left a little after sunrise. He wanted to take them first. He expected the raiders had no way to communicate with the town once they’d left, so they’d have no idea what was happening to the others. If he killed the patrol, he could then track down the raiders and take them apart in the woods before they made it home, hopefully killing all three groups before they realized what he’d done. If he moved quickly, perhaps, he could do it in a day or two.

But the patrollers were tricky. They stayed so close to Nassau’s walls and however many players remained inside. They needed to die quickly and quietly, so none could escape and raise the alarm.

On the third day, Mason waited by a thick tree along the now somewhat worn, consistent path of the towns’ river patrol. The day was cloudy, so what little light emerged from the forest canopy didn’t do much to help tell the exact time. But Mason knew it was soon.

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He lay one snare and one damage trap in the stretch with the best visibility from his ‘sniper nest’, then leaned against the tree with closed eyes and bow in hand.

The player he’d begun calling ‘Whistler’ came first, this time whistling maybe a sea shanty. He was young and Caucasian with a mop of curly hair, probably belonging in senior high and not in a life and death battle. Three more men followed him--two young, one middle aged. Mason waited for the first trap to spring.

“I’m not saying it’s pointless,” one of the men muttered from the back. “But really, has a single patrol actually found anything except deer, and a few mutant dogs?”

“Maybe that’s why,” said another. “Our patrols scare ‘em off.”

“Oh shut up and just walk for once. You got something better to do? If we’re going to talk let’s at least talk about something interesting. Like that blonde’s rack.”

“Ohh shit,” said a raider in the back. “Brother, I was at the cookout when they brought her in. I watched the whole show.”

“You were bloody not.”

“Sure was. Forget her tits, man, I swear to God she stripped down to her birthday suit, wet panties off as she bent straight back towards our peep hole. I saw fucking everything.”

“Jesus Christ, you lucky bastard.”

The man laughed. “An ass you wouldn’t believe. A perfect little box. And her knees! Her knees were all red, like she’s been on ‘em quite a bit, if you catch my drift.”

The others laughed and made appreciative noises, and Whistler stopped whistling his sea shanty long enough to whistle a cat call. Then he hit Mason’s first trap.

A shrapnel of barbs and stones exploded in his face. The other men were still laughing as Mason stepped out in front of them at twenty paces. He loosed a Power Shot without a word, choosing a new and improved aluminum, bladed arrow from his enhanced Endless Quiver. It flew straight and true, directly into Whistler’s chest. The young man staggered back and collapsed instantly.

[Critical hit! Player killed. Experience awarded.]

Mason didn’t wait to enjoy their surprise. With growing competence and speed, he drew and aimed at the next man, arrow appearing with Endless Quiver instantly at his call before taking flight. He put three arrows in the next youth before the third saw him and charged. The middle-aged man at the back turned and ran.

The charger hit trap number two. He cried out and stumbled as thorns wrapped around his leg like a chain, and dropped his movement to a crawl. Mason ran straight past him. He activated Aspect of the Cheetah, dashing at full speed for the older runner. The walls were close, and he didn’t have much time. He loosed another arrow but it flew wide. He slowed for another shot, but this one deflected off some kind of translucent shield surrounding the man.

“I’ll kill you, bastard!” yelled the still crippled patroller behind him. Mason continued to ignore him, slinging his bow around his neck as he ran without pause.

Branches flew past him in a blur, and he leapt a fallen log as he bent forward still in a sprint, legs pumping with the heat of the chase. He caught the runner a dozen steps from the wall.

“We’re under attack!” the older man shouted, waving his arms at a guard raised on some kind of tower on the inside of the town. He should have kept running.

Mason dove into his back with both weapons poised like spears. He struck, smashing through the shield, both blades sinking into flesh. The man crumpled and they went down in a tumbling heap, Mason’s knife pulled out and stabbing before his opponent could scream.

[Player killed. Experience awarded.]

The tower guard had obviously heard something but still wasn’t sure what. He leaned out over the wall with narrow eyes, looking out further, seeming not to realize the violence had happened so close. Mason sat atop the corpse and didn’t move. As the guard was pulling back, his eyes drooped slightly back into relaxation. Then he finally looked down, and met Mason’s eyes.

“What the fuck?”

Mason rolled to his feet, unslung his bow in one swift motion, and shot.

The young guard turned, just slightly, but enough to save his life. The arrow raked his cheek, spraying blood before he flung himself away from the open. Mason turned and ran.

He found the still crippled, limping patroller—who was still angrily threatening with every hobbled step—and calmly put three arrows into his chest.

[Player killed. Experience awarded.]

Mason sighed, quickly checking the dead men’s pockets (nothing useful), then their weapons (unimpressive), before turning towards the raiders’ paths, and breaking into a run. He had a lot of ground to cover. Sometimes the raiders seemed to change their patterns and paths, so he couldn’t be exactly sure which way they’d go. He had to hope Kiann would stay on top of them and leave him markers to follow. And that Nassau didn’t or couldn’t warn either of them in time, or have enough players left to come out in much force. But he cleared his mind, and focused on his footsteps, and the trees.

The patrollers were down. The first stage was complete. But he still had a job to do.