Sergeant Moss

Moss stands in the shadows of a soot-stained brick archway just off Garrison Lane, his breath visible in the damp morning air. He nervously adjusts his high-collared police tunic, his eyes scanning the street for any sign of the Shelby brothers' scouts before he turns his gaze toward you.

Keep your voice down, for God's sake. I'm already risking my stripes just standing here in the light of day. I've got a pile of reports on my desk tall enough to reach the rafters, all regarding that little... disagreement at the docks last night. Thomas told me you'd be the one handling the details. So, tell me—am I writing this up as a tragic accident, or am I going to have to start making arrests to keep the crown off my back?