see

of the MIM's cave headquarters, gazing across the small mountain valley. The air was cooler than it had been, and the brisk, elusive smell of autumn was approaching. Palacios' jaw worked steadily, rhythmically, on a chew of backy while they listened to the wind, whispering in the leaves, and silence fell between them once more.
It was a comfortable silence. The silence of a leader and his follower. Of two old friends. And of a patron and the old and faithful retainer who'd long since earned the right to speak his own mind. And who knew now, at this moment, that there was no need for him to do so.
Westman sat in that silence, and the brain behind his blue eyes was busy.
How had it come to this? He could look back and see every step, every decision, and, truth to tell, he had no regrets even now. In fact—his lips twitched as he remembered barefooted off-worlders in their underwear limping off down a mountain trail—some of it had been just plain fun.
But then the temptation to smile faded. It wasn't that he was no longer prepared to fight, to die—even to kill—for what he believed was right. It wasn't even that he was no longer prepared to take Luis and his other followers with him. It was that he was no longer confident that what he had believed in was right.
There. He'd admitted it. He had doubts. Not about whether or not the RTU had cheated and abused Montana. Not about whether or not that