Sergeant Tusker Ironhide spread the map across the table and marked the location with his thumb. Two hundred twelve targets meant two hundred twelve problems. He needed a place to track them all, somewhere fortified enough to survive the enemies who already knew his name. The farm sat three miles outside the settlement, ordinary barns and grain silos hiding reinforced walls and weapon caches. He'd bought it with bounty money from the first forty-seven names. The main house had thick stone foundations and sight lines across open fields. Underground, he'd carved out a command room where every target had a file, every location had a pin, and every network had a color-coded thread connecting them. The Thornback Syndicate ran red. The Veilclaw assassins ran black. The wizard cult ran gray. He hung the list on the wall above his desk and read it aloud, same as every morning. One hundred sixty-five names left. The farm would either be his fortress or his tomb, but either way, he had a place to work. But the real planning happened outside, where no one would look for it. He built the map table in the center of the farmyard, disguised as a workbench for mending tools. The wooden surface held Tremormaw carved in relief, rivers marked in blue paint, settlements in brown dots. Red pins showed Thornback holdings. Black pins marked Veilclaw safe houses. Gray pins clustered around wizard cult meeting sites. Colored thread stretched between them, showing supply lines, shared contacts, overlapping territory. Twenty-three connections between the Thornback Syndicate and the wizard cult. Eleven between the Veilclaw assassins and both groups. Tusker traced the threads with his finger, counting the patterns. If he hit the right three targets, he could collapse twelve more. The farm gave him what he needed most: time to think, space to plan, and walls thick enough to finish what he started. But walls meant nothing if enemies reached them. Tusker walked the perimeter at dawn, checking each turret emplacement he'd installed along the property line. Eight rotating cannons covered every approach. Motion sensors wired to spotlights. Ammunition crates buried under hay bales. He'd learned at the Gutterfen Exchange that being ambushed once meant preparing for twice. The guns hummed when he powered them up, barrels tracking across empty fields. He tested the firing mechanisms, counted the rounds, recalibrated the sights. One hundred sixty-five targets meant one hundred sixty-five chances for someone to find him first. The command post was ready. The defenses were set. Now the hunt could begin in earnest.