The forest thinned as they approached the borderlands, leaving the Rhône's misty banks behind. Soufiane led the group through the underbrush, each step careful, ears straining for any sign of pursuit. The air smelled of damp earth and pine, a reminder that nature could hide them—or betray them.
"France is almost behind us," Soufiane murmured, scanning the horizon. "Germany is just beyond these hills. But the closer we get, the more dangerous it becomes. Borders have patrols. Ayoub won't stop. Not yet."
Mourad walked beside him, quiet for once, his gaze fixed on the dirt path winding ahead. "I never imagined I'd see this country like this… free, but hunted," he said softly. His voice trembled only slightly, but Soufiane could hear the lingering fear from the sawmill and the forests they had traversed.
"We survive one step at a time," Soufiane replied. His voice was steady, clipped, carrying the weight of command. "No distractions, no mistakes. Ayoub Essouibrat is patient. He waits for us to falter. We can't let that happen."
Abderrazak moved at the rear, eyes sharp. "I've been tracking movement near the border. Minimal patrols today, but the roads aren't clear. We stay off the main paths, stick to the woods. Make no sound."
Amal, her bandaged arm now mostly healed, kept pace with Mourad. "The border's not just lines on a map," she warned. "It's guards, cameras, checkpoints. And if anyone spots us…" Her voice trailed, the unspoken ending hanging like smoke in the trees.
Soufiane didn't answer immediately. His dark eyes swept the ridges ahead, reading the land like a map of threats and opportunities. "We take the small footpaths. Avoid villages. Move mostly at dusk and night. The longer we stay exposed, the easier we are to track. Ayoub may have scouts planted already. We assume he does."
Hours passed, the sun lowering into a fiery haze behind them. Every rustle of leaves, every snapping twig became a heartbeat in their chests. Soufiane's knife rested against his leg, hand occasionally brushing the cold steel as if it grounded him. Every shadow in the underbrush could be a friend—or an enemy.
Finally, they crested a low ridge and looked down toward a narrow, winding road marking the border's edge. Beyond it, forests stretched toward Germany, dark and unbroken. Soufiane crouched low, hand on Mourad's shoulder. "That road is monitored. But there's a service path along the treeline. We take it. Keep low, stay silent. And no mistakes."
Mourad nodded, swallowing hard, his jaw tight. "I trust you, Soufiane. I'll follow."
The group moved as one, shadows slipping across the treeline. Even Abderrazak, usually a storm of confidence and brute strength, moved with a careful caution. Amal's eyes darted constantly, scanning for patrols, cameras, and any signs of Ayoub's scouts.
From the ridge above, Soufiane paused, listening. The wind carried faint sounds: a vehicle engine, distant footsteps, the murmur of voices too far away to distinguish. But he felt it—a presence, lurking. Not yet seen, not yet striking, but waiting.
"They know we're coming," he whispered. "Ayoub doesn't make mistakes. We assume he's already close. But that doesn't matter. Not yet. We're not ready to fight him. We're moving."
One by one, they descended toward the service path, each step measured, silent, deliberate. The border markers loomed ahead, cold metal and concrete in the fading light. Soufiane's heart beat in rhythm with theirs: methodical, controlled, waiting.
"Once across," he said, voice low, "we rest. Regroup. And then… we plan the next move. Germany isn't just a destination. It's where we find what we've been searching for. And Ayoub… he will follow. Always."
The shadows of the border closed in around them, stretching long as the sun dipped below the horizon. The forest seemed to swallow them, welcoming fugitives and hunters alike. But Soufiane's group moved with the certainty of those who had survived fire, blood, and relentless pursuit.
Crossing the invisible line meant nothing in law; in the world of survival and revenge, it meant everything.