Eight cars formed a column on the street before the burning mansion.
James and I rode on the fifth, together with the Mayor and two of his guards, who sat in the backseats, facing us.
Despite this, most men avoided looking directly at each other.
We focused on the road, alert for any suspicious activity.
Once the flames were left behind us, the sirens and the screams died down.
A funeral-like silence followed.
Mayor: "...Young man? Something wrong?"
It was cunning of him to target the youngest, and thus most inexperienced, with such a loaded question.
He probably already knew what was on mine and James' minds.
The burning of the mansion wasn't in the briefing.
We weren't informed of our final destination, nor the reason we had to reach it.
Most importantly, while it was important for at least one of us to keep close to the escortee...
Both James and I lost most of our combat effectiveness inside such a claustrophobic, moving space.
