[There's the faintest undercurrent of something in his tone, almost like doubt in his own words; they should be the truth. And yet, there is an echo of something, an idea, a memory-- working... with someone. Strength in numbers.
The latter, at least, he can acknowledge. He doesn't have his guns here-- that makes him less efficient. And so, his next words may not make sense immediately, but...]
Eight o'clock. Two. [Monsters approaching, that is.]