The Rhine stretched below them like a dark ribbon, silvered faintly by the moonlight, cutting through the sleeping German countryside. Soufiane crouched behind a thick stand of pines at the edge of the ridge, eyes scanning the narrow road that wound along the riverbank. Every movement below—the occasional glint of a streetlight, the subtle shift of a guard's weight—pulled at his nerves like taut wire.
Amal shifted beside him, careful not to make a sound. Her bandaged arm ached with the cold, and every muscle seemed tense, ready to spring or collapse. "They've fortified the roads," she whispered, her voice barely carrying. "Checkpoints, patrols… whoever runs this place knows what they're doing."
Soufiane's gaze didn't leave the road. "Patience," he said. "Rushing in gets people killed. We move like shadows. We learn before we strike."
Abderrazak knelt a few meters away, crowbar resting across his lap. His heavy breathing was steady, though the heat from exertion didn't disguise the tension in his posture. "We're not in Casablanca anymore," he said softly. "Every step we take here—they'll notice. Every mistake could be our last."
Soufiane nodded once, sharply. "Exactly. And the sister—our priority. We can't afford distractions. Not now." His knife rested in his hand, edge catching the moonlight like a promise.
From the ridge, they could see the first few houses of the small German town. Streetlights hummed faintly, illuminating tidy pavements, parked cars, and shuttered windows. It looked peaceful—too peaceful. Soufiane's chest tightened. He knew appearances were dangerous. These quiet towns often hid the worst of human cruelty behind neat façades.
Meriem leaned close, her rifle balanced across her knees. "Do we know exactly where they're keeping her?" she asked, voice low, though the tremor betrayed her fear.
"Not yet," Soufiane replied. "But we have leads. Local contacts. Someone saw her taken after the border crossing. She's not far from here, maybe a few miles at most. But they're careful—no chance we walk in blind."
Amal exhaled slowly. "A few miles… guarded like a fortress. That's a lot of ground to cover without being spotted."
Soufiane's jaw tightened. "We don't go straight for the front door. We watch. Study patterns. Identify weaknesses. Every guard, every patrol, every routine. Then we choose the moment. Timing is everything."
The night seemed to press against them, thick with the scent of wet leaves and river mist. Somewhere below, a dog barked faintly, echoing off the distant walls. Soufiane's hand clenched around his knife. Every sound was amplified in his mind, a warning or a test.
"Do you think Ayoub could be following us?" Amal asked, barely above a whisper.
"Maybe," Soufiane admitted, eyes narrowing. "If he's smart, he's tracking from behind. But that doesn't change what we have to do. He's a shadow we can't shake—but he's not our target here. Not yet."
Abderrazak's eyes burned with a quiet rage. "And if he shows up while we're inside? We're walking into a trap."
Soufiane's gaze swept the town below, then back at his team. "Then we adapt. We fight smart. Quick in, quick out. No one gets left behind." His words were iron and fire, and they carried the weight of command.
Hours passed in tense silence, the group watching the town through the shadows. They noted every movement: the lantern swinging at a gate, the shift of a guard on a balcony, the small window that always remained dark. Every detail added a piece to the puzzle of the rescue.
Finally, Soufiane stood, crouching low to avoid the ridge's silhouette. "We move at dawn," he said. "We'll cross the Rhine, skirt the patrols, and position ourselves closer to the holding site. Observation first. Extraction second. Precision above all."
Meriem nodded, her hands tightening around her rifle. Amal exhaled, her tension melting into determination. Abderrazak's grip on the crowbar relaxed fractionally, though the fire in his eyes remained.
The moon traced silver paths along the river as they settled into the shadows, waiting for the first signs of dawn. The Rhine lay quiet below, but Soufiane's mind raced ahead, mapping every possible route, every threat, every chance to save his sister and her children.
Somewhere in that quiet German town, the enemy slept—or at least pretended to. And somewhere, in the darkness, Soufiane's resolve burned bright: no matter the cost, they would reach her. And they would not fail.
The forest around them whispered with the wind, carrying the echoes of preparation, of tension, and of a storm yet to break. And Soufiane, crouched at the ridge's edge, knew that tomorrow, every shadow could be either an ally—or a death sentence.