The fourth morning began with a single word.
"Gear up."
Inigo stood in the center of camp, backlit by the firepit's dying embers, his voice clear but low. It was still early—gray mist drifted along the field—but the recruits were already moving. Armor was buckled, rifles checked, magazines inspected. No one asked what they were doing. They didn't need to.
They'd learned by now.
"Form two squads," Inigo ordered. "Saber and Viper. Hal and Brenna lead. You'll rotate through roles every drill."
Lyra stood beside him, holding a rolled parchment that she unraveled like a battle map.
"Today, you'll run convoy drills," she announced. "Two JLTVs. One in front, one behind. Inside—your squad. On the road—hostile terrain. At any point, we'll signal an ambush. When that happens, your response must be immediate. Fire back, dismount, secure wounded, and clear the path."
She let the parchment drop to her side.
"There will be no warning. No fixed targets. And no room for hesitation."
