Tseng nods resolutely. That's more like it. Rude keeps himself veiled, but Tseng is his director; he can sense the conviction in him, feel the rise of his determination as surely as he can clock his pulse and pressure. There are things one just has to know to command men, and Tseng knows his men better than himself most days.

"Stretch," he says, lowering his pack to the ground. The terrain here is hardly conducive to what he has in mind now, but that's better. Let Rude learn to account for multiple variables now. Later, it will help him focus. The bag opens with zipper purr, and Tseng pages through its contents until he produces a pair of focus mitts—custom-made, black as night, drafting the scent of rich leather across the buffeting gales of the mountain top. They fit his hands like a second skin, despite how unwieldy they are.

"Then square up," he says, waiting, watching. This time, he'll make no move to assist Rude with his stretches. He wants to see how far the Turk will push himself now that he realizes what is at stake.