Reinfiltration.

"Fuck 'im, he's dead and gone now." Yeah, sure, that's what it'll end up like in a few minutes if he doesn't get any help.  Damn bastard wouldn't risk his hide for his momma if she showed up.  Can't say that out loud though, even pissing shits like him off isn't worth the risk.  Live with them, think your thoughts, but don't piss people off who you have to rely on.  Least he's an open book.

I say, "He's the one who carried the disc."  That's all, he knows what it means.  Cut's the engine and we drift for a little.

"Shit."  Yeah, shit for you, and for me, but not for Chris, and that's best for all of us in the long run.  "How're we gonna get back in."  He's phrasing a question, but he's really just thinking to himself.  Doesn't expect an answer.  I'm just the gun.  He's the boss, the maps.  He's got the sequence of guard shifts memorized and the experience organizing this type of operation.

I speak up anyway.  Worst he can say is that it won't work.  "The corpses."

"What?" Yeah, sounds like a non-sequiter.

"The horse corpses.  They have to feed those things in the cages somehow, and we did, I did, leave some of them downed on the way out.

"No way in hell those things are gonna get us back in."  So he says.  That's the knee jerk though, he always says that shit right at first.  Hates other ideas on instinct.  I got no idea how he's survived in this line of work so long, but he must have a nose for real trouble.  "Well, not just by themselves they won't."  There's the pull.  He's working on it.  I don't know the way he's gonna pull this, but it's gonna be harder.  Might be safer though.  "they have stuff to feed them in there already is the problem, and they'll be looking for Trojans."  Well that's true enough.  I have yet to find a man who looks inside dead horses, but I've yet to figure out how to hide inside a real dead horse without making it look. . .messy.  "What we need is artificial scarcity and some good reasons to bring them in quick."  That's the hard part, and he's already got it solved I bet.  He's good at his job, even if he is a bastard.  "That's why we bomb the roads, lure some of these crocs up," he splashes the water, "and give the things in there a scent to make 'em hungry."  He's grinning, all smug.  It's a mean face, getting pleasure from his oneupmanship: me and the people in the compound both.  "You feel up to killing some scientific abominations when we get dumped in?"

This is the part I know I'm good for.  "Yes, sir."  I got one in the head earlier, popped it like a cherry with sharp little fangs scattering everywhere like gooey head-grenade shrapnel.

"Good.  I'll need you to fix up the horses and start one cooking.  I've got the bombs and the crocs."  They're gators, but he doesn't care about that, no difference to him either way.  I've got some work to do.  Learning anatomy can be fun.  I'll need to make it look like we got eaten by the gators though.  Makes it more sensible for why they'd find the fire.  I wouldn't be stupid enough to bring in something that strange without some proof.  "Get to it then, quick.  That bastard won't last more than a day hiding from them in there, and then we'll have lost the disc for sure."  Maybe if I phrase it right I can get him to lose a finger for the ruse.