The sawmill yard trembled with the weight of impending violence. Ayoub Essouibrat loomed over the clearing like a mountain, eyes black as coals, fists clenched. The firelight flickered across his scarred face, carving jagged lines of rage into his expression. Around him, his men were frozen, caught between instinct and fear.
Soufiane stepped forward, knife in hand, every muscle coiled like a spring. The air between them was electric, each heartbeat echoing as if the forest itself were holding its breath. Mourad, stumbling beside the other prisoners, hesitated, fear and recognition warring in his eyes. Soufiane gave a subtle nod—silent, commanding—and Mourad took it as permission to move.
Ayoub roared, a sound that tore through the yard like a storm. His men surged forward, rifles and blades glinting in the firelight. Soufiane's team split naturally, each member sliding into their role with precision: Abderrazak to the north, holding the first wave of attackers; Amal and Meriem covering the south, rifles rattling out suppressive fire; Soufiane in the center, knife flashing as he cut a path toward Mourad.
Ayoub moved with terrifying grace for a man his size, swiping aside a chain that Soufiane tried to use as leverage. His laugh was a low rumble, pure predator's joy. "You think a handful of scraps can challenge me?" he barked, swinging a massive fist that Soufiane barely avoided by rolling to the side. The force splintered the timber where he had stood seconds before.
Soufiane's knife met resistance, clanging against Ayoub's thick wrist as the man swung again. Sparks flew, metal kissing metal. Soufiane rolled back, feeling the sting of a shallow cut along his forearm, but the pain sharpened him. Every move, every dodge, was a calculation, a gamble balanced on instinct and fury.
From the south, Amal's rifle cracked, felling two guards who had tried to flank Soufiane. Meriem fired again, her hands trembling but precise. The prisoners scattered, moving toward the tree line, Mourad stumbling but kept upright by Soufiane's protective presence.
Abderrazak swung his crowbar like a pendulum, meeting every guard with brutal efficiency. Each strike was calculated to incapacitate without slowing their momentum. A man lunged at him from behind a barrel—gone before he could react. Another tried to circle around—crumpled under Abderrazak's relentless assault.
Ayoub growled low, circling Soufiane with deliberate menace. He moved like a predator testing its prey, stepping just out of reach, eyes calculating. Soufiane's breaths came in measured bursts, muscles screaming, yet he never wavered. He couldn't. Mourad's life, the lives of the prisoners, and their own survival depended on this moment.
The knife met flesh at last—Ayoub's arm—but the blow only slowed him. He roared, spinning, forcing Soufiane back into a splintered beam. Pain lanced through Soufiane's ribs, but he absorbed it, using his momentum to drive forward, knife aimed at the gap in Ayoub's armor.
Ayoub lunged, tackling Soufiane to the ground. Timber cracked under their combined weight, the air filled with grunts and the clash of strength. Soufiane's knife skittered across the dirt, his hands scrambling for leverage, finding wrist, finding grip, but Ayoub pressed him into the earth with crushing force.
Then, a crack—a sudden snap as Abderrazak slammed a crowbar into a wooden post beside Ayoub's feet. The momentary distraction caused Ayoub to stumble, just enough for Soufiane to shove Mourad out of the path of another guard. The prisoners ran for cover.
Soufiane forced Ayoub back with all his strength, driving him to the edge of the yard. Ayoub was wounded—a slash across his forearm, a heavy bruise forming along his ribs—but he was alive. He roared, fury consuming reason, and retreated toward the shadow of the sawmill, dragging the last of his guards with him.
Soufiane grabbed Mourad, keeping him close. "Go, now!" he shouted. Amal and Meriem covered the rear, picking off the few remaining pursuers with precise shots. Abderrazak blocked the final charge, crowbar raised, before they all disappeared into the darkness of the forest.
Behind them, Ayoub's enraged roar echoed through the trees, a vow that the fight was far from over. The firelight flickered across his retreating form, a wounded giant nursing both pride and pain, his eyes promising revenge.
They had escaped. Mourad was safe. But the war was only beginning.