Forced to her knees, arms held firm in the grasp of armored UNSC Marines, Eliza squeezed her eyes shut and rued the day she had ever talked to the ONI people. In front of her, Lieutenant Forrest—her contact, the man who had trained and inserted her into the Talitsa insurgency in the first place—paced among the ranks of the Marine squad clustered in this filthy alley. He was not wearing his black ONI uniform, but a battered green uniform to match the rest of the Marines. The rank insignia on his uniform was not that of a lieutenant or even an officer, but a regular sergeant. Eliza looked up at him pleadingly, but his cold gaze showed not the slightest sign of familiarity.