From the shadowed edge of the camp came a shout—Ayoub's voice, low and furious. He stepped into the firelight then, a hulking silhouette at the center of chaos. Broad-shouldered, heavy as an ox, he moved with predator's calm. Around him, men fell into line like wolves answering a whistle.
Soufiane shoved Rachid and a small cluster of freed captives toward the tree line as bullets stitched the space between them. Abderrazak fought like a man with nothing left to lose, crowbar swinging in brutal precision. Meriem dragged an elderly woman who could not walk; Amal stumbled but did not fall.
They made it—barely. The first burst of gunfire chewed at the trunks; a man went down behind them, blood spattering the moss. Ayoub's men pressed the assault, but the forest favored the smaller, faster group. Soufiane led them through a narrow ravine, branches slapping faces, hearts hammering like trapped beasts.
By the time they cleared the trees and dropped into a shadowed wash, their breaths ragged and the freed prisoners coughing and weeping, the camp sounds had receded. Embers flared in the distance where flames still ate the night. Ayoub's roar followed them like a promise they could not outrun.
They did not celebrate. The rescued—half a dozen—huddled, shaking, some too weak to know if relief was gratitude or trauma. Meriem clung to Rachid as if she could anchor him back to the person she remembered. Amal sat heavily, fingers white around her bandaged arm; her hand trembled, but her face gave nothing away.
Abderrazak dropped beside Soufiane, breathing hard. "We snagged the meds," he panted, producing a damp, tattered crate tied with a strap. "And two hunting rifles. Barely a miracle."
Soufiane opened the crate with shaking hands. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, lay bandages, syringes, a small stock of antibiotics. Not enough to heal every wound, but enough to tip some toward survival; enough to keep Amal leaning toward recovery rather than death.
They had won something. They had also made an enemy with a name: Ayoub Essouibrat. His voice—cold fury incarnate—still echoed over the trees. The men they had freed were not the only loss Ayoub would count.
As they melted back into the dark, a new truth settled like mud in their bones: they had crossed the line. The forest was quieter now, but not peaceful. The valley would burn tomorrow—or the day after. Ayoub would not forgive the theft of men and medicine. He would hunt.
And Soufiane—blade slick, breath ragged—already felt the weight of that inevitability settle across his shoulders. He had led them into reckoning. There would be no turning away.
The survivors stumbled deeper into the forest, guided only by Soufiane's instinct and the faint glow of a half-moon. The freed prisoners moved like ghosts, half-starved and skeletal, feet dragging over roots and stones. Some clutched one another for balance; others staggered alone, eyes hollow with disbelief.
Every step seemed louder than the last, each snap of a twig a warning bell. Soufiane's ears strained for pursuit, but apart from the fading echoes behind them, the night swallowed all sound. Still, he knew Ayoub would not leave it there.
"Here." Abderrazak halted at a hollow beneath an overhanging ridge. "We camp here. Just for the night." His voice was firm, eyes darting back through the trees.
Soufiane hesitated, then nodded. They had no strength left to push farther. The group collapsed into the shallow refuge. Meriem guided Rachid down gently against the stone, her hand never leaving his arm as if she feared he might vanish if she loosened her grip. Amal sank beside them, breathing shallow but steady, sweat beading her temples.
Soufiane crouched by the crate of salvaged supplies. He pulled out gauze, alcohol, and the precious vials of antibiotics. With careful hands, he cleaned Amal's wound; the sharp sting made her gasp.
"You'll be fine," he murmured, though the words tasted more like a prayer than certainty.
Abderrazak tended to the other rescued prisoners—binding cuts, offering sips of water from their dwindling skins. A gaunt boy, no older than twelve, clutched Abderrazak's sleeve, whispering something too faint to catch. The man froze, then gently pried the boy's fingers away, jaw tight. Soufiane noticed, but said nothing.
The night stretched heavy. No one dared light a fire. They ate dried figs in silence, chewing slowly, as if each bite might draw Ayoub's men closer.