Labels:text | screenshot | font | yellow | number OCR: 13 several hundred scars. A work of art, beautiful as the Fallen of the Fifth and Sixth Ranks measured such things, and inflicted with surgical precision. The artists were Manitou; torturous craftsmen, who cared nothing for the pain their victim had been forced to endure. Bolstered by the four pints of cider they'd downed in the Bratton Arms but still sober enough to know what they were about, Pete Spencer waited for Alec Powell, his partner in mischief, to catch up. It was Alec's turn to carry the 'tools' from where they'd left the car. Tools which they used to make fools out of everyone. Alec lagged a few yards behind, huffing and puffing like a knackered old cart-horse. Both widowers, the pair were just past retirement age, and expertly faking crop circles was their secret hobby. Deceiv ...
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