The night had deepened, but the ridge remained shrouded in mist, concealing Soufiane and his team. Every shadow seemed alive, every whisper of wind a possible signal. They crouched low, hearts hammering, eyes fixed on the building where his sister and her children were held. The first strike had to be precise—silent, deadly, and fast.
"Positions," Soufiane whispered, his voice slicing through the tense silence. Each member took their mark: Meriem covering the east gate, Abderrazak close to the blind spot behind the shed, Amal near the rear entrance. Soufiane's knife gleamed faintly in the dim light, the edge catching the glow of the distant lanterns.
He signaled with a hand. The group advanced, shadows moving like smoke over the ridge. Every step was calculated, every movement deliberate. The sentries' patrol patterns were predictable, but any misstep would set off alarms.
Soufiane's mind raced, replaying every detail from their reconnaissance. There were three main guards by the gate, one pacing the courtyard, and another by the rear entrance. Two lanterns hung by the building, their light casting elongated shadows. He counted, timed, and waited.
A soft click—the first guard's step faltering slightly on uneven ground. Soufiane gestured, and Abderrazak moved like a shadow, closing in silently. Within seconds, the guard slumped against the wall, a muted thud marking the strike.
Meriem and Amal mirrored the action, neutralizing their targets with precise efficiency. No alarm sounded. The courtyard remained quiet, the fog swallowing every sound. Soufiane moved to the main entrance, pressing against the door with steady hands. The lock was old, the mechanism brittle. A few twists, a careful push, and the door yielded.
Inside, the building smelled of damp wood and fear. Shadows flitted across the walls, but Soufiane's focus remained on the center room. There she was—his sister, her face pale, eyes wide with disbelief as she recognized him. Beside her, her two children clung together, trembling but alive.
"Soufiane?" she whispered, her voice breaking.
"Shh," he said softly, kneeling to meet her gaze. "We're getting out. Now."
Abderrazak moved to cover the hallway while Meriem and Amal quickly assessed the room for any hidden threats. Soufiane handed his sister's children to Amal, who held them close, murmuring reassurances that only a calm presence could give.
The escape route was narrow. Guards could appear at any moment. Soufiane led them through a side corridor, pressing against the walls, every muscle tensed. A distant shout echoed through the mist—Ayoub's men, likely discovering the first missing sentry.
"Move!" Soufiane snapped. They sprinted in low crouches, using the fog as cover, the ridge's uneven terrain hiding their approach. Bullets thudded into the ground near them, sparks of danger flashing in the dim light.
Abderrazak, leading at the rear, swung his crowbar to deflect a makeshift barricade, clearing the path. Meriem kept pace beside him, rifle raised, ready to act but not fire unless necessary. Amal whispered encouragements to the children, her own fear hidden behind firm determination.
Finally, they reached the ridge's far edge. The forest beyond promised concealment, safety, and the first true breath of relief. Soufiane paused, scanning for pursuit. The faint glow of torches revealed no immediate threat—Ayoub's men were disoriented, the first strike complete and clean.
His sister stepped close, gripping his arm. "I… I thought…" Her voice faltered, relief washing over her features.
"Not yet," Soufiane said. His eyes remained fixed on the dark horizon. "Ayoub is alive. He'll come. But for now, we move. We disappear, and we plan the next step."
The fog embraced them, swallowing the small group as they descended into the forest. The first strike had been successful, but the war was far from over. Every heartbeat was a reminder: Ayoub Essouibrat was still out there, and the fight had only just begun.