The moon hung thin and cold above the valley as Soufiane led them closer to the wire. They moved like shadows, pressed flat against the damp earth, boots muffled by fallen needles. The air tasted of iron and smoke; the faint stench from the camp below crept in small, hateful gusts. Every nerve in Soufiane's body thrummed as if they shared one giant heartbeat.
Amal rode low on borrowed strength, wrapped tight in her blanket. The antibiotics had steadied her, but she was still no match for a pitched fight. Soufiane had insisted she stay back; she'd refused at first, then conceded only because Meriem would not leave her side. Abderrazak walked the rear, crowbar ready, eyes flicking like a hawk's.
They found a fallen birch within sight of the compound and crouched. From here, the guard rotation was clear: two men near the cages, a pair by the water barrels, another couple lounging at the fire pits where Ayoub's men ate and drank with brutal ease. Ayoub himself was not visible in the light, but his influence was tangible—guards moved when he snapped, prisoners flinched when he laughed.
Soufiane mouthed the plan in a hoarse whisper. "We hit the stockpile—meds and weapons. Abderrazak and I pull the guard on the north post. Meriem and Amal create noise at the south perimeter—draw attention, then we go for the cages. Quick. No preaching. Grab who we can and run." There was no time for speeches.
Abderrazak glanced at him, dark eyes assessing. "You sure you want Meriem in that noise?" he hissed.
"She knows Rachid," Soufiane said. He swallowed. "She can't not try."
Meriem stared at him, jaw set in a way Soufiane knew meant she'd accepted the risk. Amal squeezed her hand and gave a tiny nod. The pact sealed itself in a breath.
They moved at once.
Abderrazak and Soufiane slipped down the slope under a tree line, crawling to a shallow rise where a lone guard paced. The man's rifle glinted when he turned. Abderrazak moved first—fast and brutal—running him down with a shoulder and a crowbar that connected with a hollow thunk. The guard went down before he could shout. Soufiane muffled the next two, a blade finding a soft spot behind the ear. The three northern posts were silent corpses before the first alarm could even be imagined.
On the other side of the camp, Meriem and Amal played the bait. A dropped rock clattered. Meriem's voice rose—sharp, panicked. "Help! Please—" The sound snagged on the night, and a guard barked awake. The camp stirred.
Chaos followed, but it was controlled chaos—they had to own it. Abderrazak smashed a lantern and flung it; the flames licked greedily at the dry brush. Men shouted. Ayoub's camp folded into action with practiced brutality, moving to secure the perimeter and crush the intruders.
Soufiane ran for the cages. The wire was thin in places—rust had done its work—and he slipped through a gap Abderrazak forced open. Rachid sat slumped against the bars, eyes hollow but alive. When Meriem's hand brushed his, something raw and human lit his face: recognition.
"Rachid—" she breathed.
"Mer—" he rasped, voice a ragged plea.
Soufiane's blade found the lock and did not hesitate. The bolt fell. For a moment, freedom was simple. Prisoners stumbled out, blinking at the trees as if seeing them for the first time in months. But freedom in two steps was not victory: guards swarmed, rifles raised, and the night erupted into a storm of screams, steel, and fire.