Dawn broke gray over Berlin, mist clinging to rooftops and empty streets. Soufiane led the team carefully, keeping to alleys and side roads, avoiding major thoroughfares. Each footstep was measured, every glance sweeping for threats. Hanover lay several hours north, but the trail was narrow, and they couldn't afford to be careless.
Amal adjusted her sling as they passed a deserted tram station. "It's going to be a long walk," she muttered. Her voice was calm, but exhaustion crept into her movements.
"We'll rest only when we must," Soufiane replied, his dark eyes scanning the streets. "Any pause is a chance for Ayoub to find us. And he's not far behind."
Abderrazak carried supplies on his back, keeping pace with ease, but his jaw was tight. "He's cunning," he said quietly, voice low. "He doesn't rush. He waits, calculates, then strikes. We can't underestimate him, even now."
The group moved in practiced silence, slipping into narrow lanes, ducking behind vehicles, and using shadowed courtyards to rest briefly. Every corner, every alleyway, seemed to hold potential danger. Soufiane's knife was never far from his hand, gleaming faintly in the muted light.
By midday, they reached the outskirts of Berlin. The cityscape gave way to industrial areas, warehouses, and abandoned factories. Soufiane crouched behind a low wall, scanning the area ahead. "This is the route," he murmured. "They move through these zones to avoid attention. Any lead we get here is crucial."
Meriem nodded, her rifle ready. "And if we find nothing?" she asked quietly, though she already knew the answer.
Soufiane's gaze sharpened. "Then we follow the signs anyway. Someone always leaves a trace—discarded item, conversation, pattern. We're patient. That's how we survive this."
Hours passed with only minor encounters—workers heading to early shifts, delivery trucks rumbling past, the occasional streetlight flicker. Then Amal froze, motioning for silence. Ahead, a man hurried along the edge of a warehouse, glancing over his shoulder nervously. Soufiane's pulse quickened; the figure bore the same network tattoo they had seen in Berlin.
He moved forward quietly, Abderrazak at his side. The man didn't notice them until Soufiane's hand lightly touched his shoulder. "Information," Soufiane said, voice low but firm. "Now."
The man's eyes widened, fear evident. "Hanover," he whispered. "They moved her—Lina, the children. North. Safe, for now, but not for long. Guards change every night. One wrong step, and…" His words trailed off, his meaning clear.
Soufiane nodded, memorizing every detail. "Number of guards? Shift changes?"
"Two in front, three at the rear. Every three hours. Routes vary slightly, but always along the main road out of the industrial park. Trucks carry them sometimes—cover moves—hard to predict, but… north, always north."
Soufiane turned to the group. "Hanover is our next stop. We move tonight. No mistakes. Amal, plan the approach. Meriem, check vantage points. Abderrazak, prep for interference."
The group dispersed briefly to ready themselves, the city still oblivious to the deadly calculation in motion. Every decision was crucial; every delay could cost them Lina or the children.
As night fell, the streets emptied, shadows thickened, and the group moved silently through the industrial area. Hanover awaited—its distance measured not just in kilometers, but in risk, strategy, and the ever-looming threat of Ayoub Essouibrat, whose patience and cunning might yet turn their hunt into a trap.
Soufiane's gaze hardened on the distant north. "Tonight," he whispered, "we begin the final leg. And we do not fail."
The group melted into darkness, each step bringing them closer to the family they sought and closer to the inevitable confrontation that waited on the Hanover trail.