Shepard, idly toeing the unconscious man, gives him a swift kick in response to Garrus' conjecture. He doesn't even groan, just flops over limply, well and truly out, and— well, if he hadn't been badly concussed before, he was now. The sound it makes is... illustrative.

"He isn't," she opines, bluntly, and with a relish that isn't wholly feigned, "So who do you work for?"

'N... nobody, we's just looking for easy money.'

"Oh come on, half a dozen guys, out in the badlands, just... waiting for somebody to come through? You're joking."

'No really, we—'

"Who's even coming through here, aside from soldiers and summoned? We're carrying medical resupply, not money."

The man stills, breathing faster, panic coming up in him in visible spurts of fear. Shepard steps closer, grit crunching under her boots.

"How about you try honesty, tough guy, or maybe we'll see how many bones you can break, before you die."

'I... I... w-we... You ain't soldiers. You're Summoned. You got them freaky magics.'

"Lucky you, we're both." The silence shut its jaws around the man's throat, and he swallowed, and panted, looking for any way out, "Talk, or we're done here."

'There's a camp! We got a camp, we... The Boss, she said we do this patrol, we get paid.'

Shepard considered this intelligence with due consideration, tipping her head towards Garrus in a mute question. Was he telling the truth? If so, the bandit problem was going to be worse than they'd hoped; a bunch of small groups of idiots were trouble enough. If they were coordinating...

Well, it'd be good enough to file a mission report, anyways.

"Hmm. What do you think, Garrus?"