The night was a thick, suffocating blanket as Soufiane's group crept through the underbrush, the ruined sawmill looming ahead like a jagged wound against the horizon. The air smelled of rot and smoke, and the ground beneath their boots was uneven, littered with debris from decades of abandonment. Every snapped twig, every rustle of dead leaves sent sparks of adrenaline through their veins.
Soufiane led the way, crouched low, knife in hand, eyes sharp as a predator's. Behind him, Abderrazak moved with controlled precision, crowbar at the ready. Amal, quieter now but equally vigilant, carried her pack and rifle, her bandaged arm pressed tight to her side. Meriem followed, her rifle cradled against her chest, each breath shallow and measured. They were a small, precise unit, shadows moving in the dark.
Below them, the sawmill yard sprawled, torches lining the perimeter and casting flickering pools of light. The prisoners were huddled near the center, some on their knees, others forced to sit against the wooden walls. Mourad sat among them, chains digging into his wrists, his head lifted just enough to catch the firelight. Recognition flared across his face as their eyes met—raw, unspoken relief tempered with fear.
Soufiane exhaled slowly, letting his tension stretch into focus. "We split into two teams," he whispered, voice just above the sound of the wind. "Abderrazak and I take the north perimeter. Noise, distraction, quick hits. Amal and Meriem, you flank the south, stay low. Once the guards are engaged, we hit the prisoners—get them out before Ayoub can react."
Amal nodded, jaw tight. "Timing will be everything. If we misstep…"
"Then we die," Soufiane finished for her, his tone flat, heavy with certainty. "But we don't misstep."
They moved forward, silent as smoke, hugging the shadows of the broken structures. Every step brought the distant glow closer, every crack of a board beneath their boots was a potential death sentence. The sawmill had once been alive with machinery, with the hum of saws and the smell of freshly cut timber. Now it was a fortress of fear, built from desperation and cruelty, each torch a warning and a lure.
Abderrazak and Soufiane split from the others, moving around the north side. A single guard patrolled near a stack of rusted barrels. Soufiane's eyes measured distance, calculating the angle of approach. With a soft hiss of breath, Abderrazak darted forward, crowbar raised. The guard never had a chance. A sharp crack, a grunt, and the man collapsed silently into the shadows.
On the south, Amal and Meriem crept closer, keeping to the edges where darkness swallowed them whole. A guard lifted a rifle to his shoulder, scanning the darkness. Meriem's heart thundered, but she remained steady. When the timing was right, a rock tumbled near the northern wall, the sound drawing the soldier's attention. Amal pressed the trigger of a carefully aimed shot—just enough to wound, not kill—and chaos bloomed.
The firelight shifted as Ayoub's men reacted, scrambling toward the north. That was all Soufiane needed. He signaled, and they moved—the five of them now a single, lethal shadow sweeping through the yard. Chains fell from wrists as Soufiane and Abderrazak sliced through restraints, prisoners stumbling forward, disbelief and hope mingling in their eyes.
Mourad's gaze met Soufiane's for a brief second, a silent promise passing between them. Then a shout tore through the yard—Ayoub. His massive silhouette stepped into the firelight, eyes blazing with fury, fists clenching the air like thunder. His men froze for a fraction too long, giving the outsiders a critical advantage.
"Move!" Soufiane snapped, pushing the freed prisoners toward the south exit. They ran, stumbling over broken boards and discarded crates, while Abderrazak and Soufiane held the line, crowbar and knife swinging, strikes measured and brutal.
Amal covered their flank, shots ringing out, each crack of the rifle forcing guards into cover. Meriem's hands shook as she fired, but her aim stayed true, felling the nearest threats. The prisoners' chains clattered to the ground behind them, the sound a small symphony of liberation amid the chaos.
Ayoub roared, voice like rolling boulders, and surged forward, but Soufiane met him at the edge of the clearing. The massive man's shadow fell over them both, tense and charged, the first true confrontation inevitable. Soufiane's knife gleamed under the torchlight, his gaze hard, unyielding.
"This ends tonight," Soufiane muttered under his breath.
And with the forest around them holding its breath, the collision between the hunted and the hunter was about to begin.