The second impact did not sound like wood.
It sounded like bone striking steel.
Luca felt it before he understood it—
that same sickening jolt that had once rolled armored transports into ditches during the southern ridge war.
His hand had already gone to the door latch when the third hit came.
Harder.
Closer.
Metal screamed.
"Stay down," he ordered.
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
The kind of calm that came only when instinct had finished arguing with logic and decided survival was no longer negotiable.
Outside, something large struck the rear quarter again—
not with claws—
With weight.
Intentional.
Disciplined.
"Bastard's testing the chassis," the driver hissed.
"Then stop giving him one," Luca replied.
He pushed the door open.
Cold air flooded in.
Along with scent—
Wet bark.
Iron.
And unfamiliar musk layered beneath both.
Shit.
Not scouts.
Strike team.
He stepped out.
Boots hitting gravel as another shadow moved between the trees.
