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The jeep that rolled into view was not as heavily armored as the other vehicles parked in the canyon nook, but the design was similar enough to feel like it belonged here. Scout let out a breath of relief; not bandits. The jeep had no extra guns but someone had added plating to the exterior, particularly in the front, where it came to a point intended to ram—or more accurately stab—other vehicles.
Scout couldn’t make out the driver, but a man in the passenger seat was standing, one hand on the roll bar, looking behind them as they came in the gate. He looked older, with a short ponytail of silvery-white hair and many scars crisscrossing the sun-damaged skin of his massive arms. Some looked like burns, others more like the result of some sort of blade. A warrior’s arms. He turned to lo
