With my eyes glued to the screen, I started walking.

I trailed them as casually as I could while still attempting to keep them in my peripheral vision. Thankfully, this area of the park was wide and open, with sweeping fields and few trees to block lines of sight. A fair amount of civilians wandered the paths; joggers and bikers, parents with children, people walking their dogs. It was easy to mimic them, to pretend I was just a random civilian enjoying the evening.

Finally, the Patriarch and his men made their way toward a large blue-green pond at the end of one field. A man in a gray suit sat on a nearby bench, staring over the water. The Patriarch stopped a few dozen feet from the bench and spoke quietly to his guards. They turned, folded their hands in front of them and scanned the area while the Patriarch continued toward the pond.

Shrugging off my pack, I walked to a tree about a hundred yards from the bench and sat down, leaning against the trunk with my back to the water. Setting my bag on the ground, I unzipped the top just enough to feel around inside. The shotgun microphone sat nestled in the bottom—amazing what you could pick up on the internet. Carefully, I plugged my headphones into the microphone, switched it on and pointed the entire backpack toward the bench, trying to find the right angle. There was a buzz of static in my ear, and snatches of a conversation filtered through the earbuds before resolving into separate voices.

“—llo, Richard,” crackled one voice, smooth and confident, making me frown. Richard? Who was on a first name basis with the Patriarch? I held my breath, easing the backpack to a better position. The voice sputtered a moment, then grew stronger. “Lovely evening, isn’t it? I heard last week was nothing but rain.”

“Let’s skip the pleasantries.” The deep second voice was clipped, impatient, which surprised me. I’d heard speeches given by the Patriarch, his words inspiring the soldiers of St. George as he reminded them of our holy mission. In all instances, he was poised and confident, never raising his voice to get a point across. He’d sounded nothing like the brusque, almost nervous man across the lawn. “That’s not why we’re here.”

Interesting. I suddenly understood why the Patriarch had chosen to meet in a very public park. If he didn’t trust the other man, he wouldn’t want to pick a location where the other could do something nefarious with no witnesses. Rules of enemy negotiations: don’t meet on the enemy’s turf, and don’t give him the opportunity to double-cross you.

So, who was this other man? And how had he convinced the Patriarch, the leader of St. George, to meet with him like this, when he obviously didn’t want to?

“As you say. I suppose we should get down to business, then.” By comparison, the other’s voice was cool and almost smug. “I trust the operation in China was a success?”

There was a creak, as if the Patriarch had seated himself on the bench and leaned back. His voice was begrudging as he answered. “The squad located the temple in the mountains and found the targets inside, just as you said.”

“And?”

“They’ve been dealt with.”

“Excellent. My people will be pleased to hear it.” A pause, and then the faint tapping of keys, as if the stranger was typing something on a laptop. “Another successful raid, and your men have done well. The funds should be in your account by the time you get home.”

My stomach dropped. Certainly not the vision from God the Order would have us believe. Who is this person? Is he even part of St. George, or is he something else entirely?

“You don’t look pleased, my friend,” the stranger went on. “Are you disappointed with our arrangement? Surely the destruction of another nest is cause for celebration, yet you seem unhappy.”

“I am not,” the Patriarch said in a cold voice, “nor will I ever be, your friend.” His voice faded as static buzzed through the headphones, and I carefully adjusted the backpack until it cleared. “...benefits us now,” the Patriarch went on. “But do not think we will ever be allies, and do not think I will change our beliefs. The Order does not bow to the whims of dragons, regardless of loyalties or circumstances.”

What?

“Be that as it may,” the man returned with a smile in his voice, “I’m afraid it is far too late for you to reconsider our arrangement. What would the rest of the Order say, if they knew their Patriarch had sold himself to the enemy? Do you think they would care that one tiny branch of Talon wants to bring down the whole? Do you think St. George would agree that doing business with a handful of dragons in order to destroy the rest is for the good of us all?” His voice grew faintly threatening. “If certain documents suddenly became known to the rest of the Order, what do you think would happen?” The stranger snorted. “Well, you know your people better than I. What is the punishment for treason—for consorting with dragons?”