The man sat at the table in his office. His guns lay on the table behind him. He smoked the cigar, puffing out a plume of smoke before extinguishing it. He watched the falling snow through the window, before pulling out a few maps from the drawer. He rapidly flipped through them until he settled on one and threw the others haphazardly to the side. He unfolded it and scratched his unkempt beard. Then, he made several markings on it with his pen.

There was a knock at the door before it opened, revealing a man clad in green clothing. He stepped in and stood silently before the other man, watching him work at the large sheet of paper in front of him. Finally, the other man took notice.

"Are you and Trent ready to leave?" he asked, his voice raspy from years of inveterate smoking.

"Yes," the green-clothed man answered.

"Good. Look here." He traced a line with his finger up to a pen marking. "You can follow this route. It should get you there without a hitch." He moved his finger again, hovering over a spot on the map before firmly pressing it down. "Here. That's where I want your team and Trent's after it's done."

"Understood."

"There are a few towns nearby that you can wait in. If something goes wrong, I want you to be close by."

"Understood."

"Once Trent is done, I want you to keep an eye on the town for a few days." He handed the map to him. "If necessary, use force. I don't care who has to pay the price. Don't fuck this up," he said, as he sat down.

"I won't." The man dismissed himself.

The man looked at his now empty table absent-mindedly. He drummed his fingers on the edge, the bullet wound on his hand in full display.