The world was just starting to stir, with silent fields and sleeping villages lying all around. It had been so many long quiet miles up until now that every creak of the trucks felt loud as thunder. Far away, the shutters of a farmhouse rattled once. Somewhere a rooster gave its tentative call. Night had only just loosened its grasp, and the convoy's headlights cut through the premature gloom.
Dawn came like a reprimand: thin, hesitant light stretching across the fields as if the sky itself decided to begin the day with a question. In that predawn hush, the convoy turned onto the cracked dirt lane leading to Villeneuve. For miles they followed this single track road flanked by open fields. It felt as though the road itself might be a snare. Every open gate and crumbling homestead along the way seemed to watch them come. The countryside around them lay flat and honest – low grasses, a few gnarled trees, and stone fences that had stood longer than any man who currently claimed them. The land was deceptively peaceful. Markus couldn't shake the feeling that such silence might be a stage – that any moment the play of war could begin again.
Commander Markus Voss sat in the front of the lead vehicle, his cap low and eyes cold with focus. His shoulders were squared by habit; under his coat, his hands clutched the steering wheel, knuckles white. Every instinct screamed caution, but he kept his face still and unreadable. He scanned the horizon methodically, noting every shape against the waking sky. Beside him, Dr. Adrian Kells methodically checked the seals on a heavy metal case. Adrian's hands were as steady as a surgeon's, but even he winced at the sudden rattle of the truck. The morning air smelled of wet earth and diesel, and in the cab Markus still felt the faint echo of the briefing's tension.
At the flank of the convoy walked Valeria Kade, moving like a sentinel along the old stone wall. Her boots crunched softly on gravel. She carried herself with a watchful intensity, muscles coiled as if ready to spring. Valeria's eyes flicked over the fields and ruined fences: an open gate, a low wall for cover, a distant farmyard window. She had been expelled from peace missions before – scapegoated, in fact – but Markus had insisted she come on this one. Now, she kept to the edge of their formation, every sense alert.
Elise Marchand trailed Valeria by a few paces, clutching a small dog-eared photograph against her chest. The man in it had kind eyes – eyes that did not belong here. Elise's breath came shallow and quick, the steady rhythm of fear trying to steady her heartbeat. She gripped the photo tight, saying a silent prayer. Across the convoy she caught Serjeant Emil Kovac casting a cautious glance her way. He was back at the drivers' cab, checking radio dials. Markus didn't trust what he saw, but did nothing.
In the second truck, Lukas Marius hunched over a battered laptop, dark hair falling into his eyes. He was doing what he always did: coaxing signals from dead air. He tapped at the keyboard, listening to the world in silence. All he heard was static and distant birdsong. Lukas sealed the laptop and pulled the antenna closer, just to try again. Nothing. A network had gone dark overnight, just like the rest of the countryside.
This was supposed to be a quiet mission. Humanitarian on paper – doctors to remove illegal microchips, scientists to analyze them, and just enough soldiers to protect the convoy. Officially, they were here to reassure nervous villagers; unofficially, they were the blunt instrument that met the sharpest edges of modern politics. Months of panic had swept through Villeneuve: families suddenly gripped by hallucinations and anger, rumors of spies among them. The rumor was that foreign powers were behind it, distributing microchips in secret, fracturing trust until chaos bloomed. Markus didn't trust the rumor, he only knew that they had to clean this up.
The village of Villeneuve sat ahead in a shallow bowl of fields, smoke curling from a few early hearths. Tiled roofs and a lone church spire blurred under the rising light. For a moment there was nothing but the domestic sounds of morning: a goat's bell tinkling, a child's distant laughter, the creak of a cart wheel. It felt staged, as if someone had set this calm just to lull them. Markus felt a familiar prickle along his nape, a warning reflex that said the air was thick with something unseen.
"Hold the line," he said quietly. His voice was even as he opened the door of the front cab. The trucks slowed with a rattle. The soldiers dismounted into a loose semicircle around them. Valeria dipped behind the wall by her side, weapon at the ready. Elise stood near the vehicles, knees knocking slightly but chin high.
Markus didn't smile or speak. He caught Kells's eye in the rear-view mirror. Adrian nodded back, as steady as his hands.
The silence stretched for a heartbeat too long. Then a lone figure hurtled down the lane. A man in a threadbare shirt came flying toward them, carrying something in his hands. The first soldier reacted: "Throw!" It was a grenade, or something like it – a canister sparked on the gravel before Lukas had even pounded on the screen.
Without warning, the rifle barked. The man vaulted into the air, flung violently by the shot, then fell like a marionette with its strings cut. Glass shattered in his shirt pocket. He was still as stone.
"Contact front!" Sergeant Tomas Rehn's voice cut the silence. Weapons erupted.
From the ridge above the far end of the lane, gray-clad figures emerged, moving with ruthless efficiency. Masks covered their faces. One of them raised a pistol for a long moment, then dropped it onto the ground as if it had always been a joke. It wasn't. Automatic fire stitched the dawn. Dirt and stones burst around them like the earth itself convulsing. Shouts and pain mixed in the air.
Markus reacted instantly. With one sweep of his arm he shoved Elise behind a broken wall. The world became a kaleidoscope of muzzle flashes and sweat. He felt rather than heard Emil Kovac's shout "No!" just before a spray of bullets cracked the earth near them. The wall shuddered under impact. Elise pressed herself flat behind him. He could feel her weight and trembling against his side. He checked her – no hysterics, only raw fear.
They were outgunned. Dirt exploded over their heads. Rehn shouted orders, but the stream of hostile fire forced the convoy to scatter. Emil and Hugo Morel ducked behind the second truck. Jonas Haller and Private Petar Durov hit the ditch. Anders Björn dove under a wheel well.
Already Rehn was on the ground, blood blossoming across his chest. He had moved to engage an attacker, and one had found him. The Sergeant's strong hands fell, and one of the convoy's best was gone in a heartbeat.
Chaos erupted. Emil Kovac crawled and returned fire. "Fall back!" someone screamed. Markus grabbed Elise and dragged her to the cab of another truck. "Forward, now!" he ordered the driver, who reeved the engine and pushed through the hail.
In the courtyard of a farmhouse, two women had slipped into the open. A grenade lobbed from cover obliterated their world. They slumped to the ground, shawls sliding off their heads like drawn curtains. Markus saw them through the flash of a tracer: a mother and her neighbor, everyday villagers caught under the wrong sky. He prayed neither was hurt by chance. But he knew. The rifles stopped a moment later; the silence returned like night.
Around him, men checked numbers. Emil was shaking, face gray. Jonas Haller and Petar Durov were alive, pinned down but breathing. Corporal Morel had a grazing wound on his shoulder. The patients were insensible now, in need of every skill Dr. Kells had.
Only one escort soldier lay dead in the mud. Sergeant Rehn. And two local women. All else was wounded or shaken.
Blood and fires' stink clung to the morning. Men gasped for air, knuckles tight around rifles. The ambulance sirens in the distance had not come for them yet.
Blame sprouted like weeds. Blood on their hands, they searched desperately for something – someone – to pin it on. Their eyes darted like hungry birds.
"She was seen with that man in the market!" Emil growled, pointing at Elise. The words were simple but sharp. A memory of Elise chatting with a stranger days ago. Now it felt like a deed.
Valeria's jaw clenched. But her gaze stayed fixed. Elise pressed the photo close to herself like a talisman.
Markus felt the fissure between them widening. The men needed a target for their grief and fear, and their fingers pointed now at Elise.
"It was a setup," Markus said evenly, playing the peacemaker he had to be. Jonas Haller, who had lived calmly under fire all morning, muttered, "Someone led us in."
"Someone was with her," another soldier said.
"No," Markus said, louder than he intended. "We don't know anything yet." He scanned the squad. Men were crying out in suppressed anger. They needed an answer.
Elise's lips quivered but she remained silent, eyes locked on the mud. She had been careless – that admitted – but not a saboteur. Still, guilt sat heavy in her chest like a stone.
A grunt went around the circle of escort men. They were tired, bloodied, hurt, and now needed a way to keep moving. The secret blend of empathy and discipline Markus usually struck felt like a riddle. If they fractured now, they all died. If he placated them with quick justice, one innocent paid the price.
Markus steeled himself. He would temporarily sacrifice one truth for the many. He pointed to Emil Kovac. "Yes," he said calmly. "Lieutenant Marchand's negligence led to this breach. She is to remain under guard. We will follow protocol, a formal inquiry. Until then, no one calls this an ambush."
A collective breath whooshed out of the group. The accusation, flatly stated, settled in the air like dust.
Sitting amid his hurt and rage, Emil nodded sharply. Jonas looked uncertain, but he said nothing against the narrative. The others shifted on their heels. The anger they had roared down at bloodshed now cooled at a clear culprit.
Valeria watched this unfold with a strange calm. In their dark eyes, she saw the reflection of a pattern she knew well. Once, not long ago, she had worn Elise's boots – faulted for caring in a war zone. Now she would play the bearer of blame. It was a theater, she knew, and she would play along. Her fingers wrapped tighter around her rifle, steadying the tableau.
Markus gave a subtle nod to Valeria. He saw the hurt flash in her expression, but it was tempered by resolve. She would carry the lie they needed. Markus called out, "We move!"
They loaded into trucks with a brittle orderliness. Dr. Kells and Dr. Nadeau worked at their stations with grim efficiency. Kells crouched over Emil's leg, cleaning the wound. Emil grunted every time, and the doctor murmured, "You'll walk it off, soldier," to keep him calm. Nadeau examined the scorched crate by the road, carefully bagging any fragments or vials that might become evidence. Lukas rebooted his radios and tried the satellite uplink again – silence still answered.
The villagers watched from the doorways, stunned. Some wept softly. The convoy felt their eyes burning pity into their backs, but the men's faces were turned away.
Night fell early as they set up a field stretch. They buried Sergeant Rehn just outside Villeneuve. The local priest, who had appeared out of the twilight, handled it gently – a stoop and a cross made of fallen wood, a few whispered prayers in French and in memories. Emil spit into the shallow grave as the priest scooped dirt over the uniform, then covered it with the priest's own blanket. No gun salute, just the somber quiet.
The two women were covered hastily with a canvas. Mark's conscience gnawed at him at every tap of earth. Those were innocent lives. He promised himself to keep this lie short.
Later, under lamplight in the trucks, Markus sat at Elise's side as she was held under guard. He leaned in close. The rest of the convoy stayed outside. In the hushed center of the tent, with only adrenaline and candlelight for company, Markus finally asked, "Explain."
Elise looked up, eyes bloodshot. She took a trembling breath and did. Her voice was low. She told Markus about Stefan Orlov – how the smiling man in the photo had worked her in with friendly laughter at the market, learned their route as if it were gossip, and left them open. When her explanation drifted into sobs, she covered her face. "He was a liar, Markus," she managed. "He used me."
Markus's jaw tightened. He felt anger cold and clear: Stefan Orlov, sweet-talking snake, would pay for this. He squeezed Elise's shoulder gently. "We'll find him," he promised. He believed it with every fiber of himself. Elise only nodded, relief and guilt mingling, but the promise was needed.
Outside the truck, dawn began to break. Valeria stood at the rear of the convoy as it pulled away. She stared ahead, hands clasped on the butt of her rifle, a stone among men. The villagers of Villeneuve drifted back into their homes, whispers trailing in their wake.
Markus drove with a knot in his gut. One lie between soldiers and the truth – he had given it to them like a poison to keep them alive. Elise was blamed now; Valeria bore that story in front of the others. Both would hurt. Both would know it. But the men had their answer, and for now the convoy held itself together.
He slipped the scrap of paper in his hand deeper into his pocket. We will see how easily lines bleed. Stefan Orlov's taunting message sent another coil of ice through Markus's spine. It was a threat, an accusation, and an admission all in one. He wouldn't voice it. He simply drove on. The road ahead was long, and the real work was only beginning.
Markus finally exhaled. "All right," he said quietly to the men around him. "It's over. Let's move out." He turned and walked toward the lead truck. Above them, the sky was empty and boundless. Markus swore he would fill it soon, with justice, or at least payback.