Night fell like a heavy curtain over the ridge, the forest beneath shrouded in darkness and mist. Zahira's group crouched behind the reinforced walls of the refugee shelter, hearts hammering with every distant rustle. The wind carried faint hints of smoke from the valley below—signs that Ayoub Essouibrat's forces were approaching, testing their defenses, calculating their reactions.
Zahira signaled for silence. Her group moved like shadows, weapons at the ready, every movement deliberate. They had trained for this, observed patterns, anticipated attacks. The tension was a living thing, pressing on their shoulders, filling their ears with the distant, deliberate crunch of Ayoub's scouts moving through the underbrush.
A flare illuminated the ridge, painting the treeline in harsh white light. Then came the first gunshot, echoing through the forest. Zahira's heart tightened, but she didn't flinch. She had prepared for this. Orders flowed in hushed whispers: Amal and Meriem flanked the perimeter, taking positions behind fallen trees and barricades; the others reinforced choke points along the pathways leading to the shelter.
Ayoub's men pressed forward methodically, moving as if every second was calculated. But Zahira had set traps—snare wires hidden under leaves, tripwires linked to small explosions of debris. Panic and chaos would be Ayoub's enemy, not brute force. And when the first scout tripped a wire, the loud snap echoed, halting their advance momentarily. The clash had begun.
Shots rang out in bursts, mingling with the yells of soldiers and the sharp commands of leaders. Zahira's group moved like a single organism, each member covering the other, using every shadow, every dip in the terrain to their advantage. Amal's arm burned with fatigue from holding her rifle steady, but she didn't falter. Meriem's eyes darted constantly, scanning for weakness, reporting quietly into Zahira's direction.
Through the chaos, Zahira caught a glimpse of Ayoub himself, moving with deliberate menace, towering above his men, eyes scanning for the center of resistance. Every command he shouted struck fear and urgency into his followers, and his laugh—a low, echoing sound—cut through the tension like steel. He was the predator here, testing them, pushing them, yet underestimating their preparation.
The firefight lasted fifteen grueling minutes. Every second stretched longer than the last. Every shot taken, every evasive maneuver, carried the weight of life and death. Zahira's group held their ground, forcing Ayoub's soldiers to retreat step by step. Then, without warning, Ayoub himself signaled withdrawal, leaving a handful of scouts to cover the retreat. The immediate danger had passed, but the threat remained.
Breathing hard, Zahira's group regrouped inside the shelter, checking weapons, rearming traps, and catching their breath. "We held them off," Zahira said, voice steady but firm. "But make no mistake—Ayoub is still out there. Watching. Waiting. Calculating."
Amal nodded, brushing sweat and grime from her face. "This was just the beginning. He'll return. Stronger, faster, more ruthless."
Zahira's eyes glinted in the dim firelight. "Tonight, we survived. We learned how he moves. We know his methods now. And when the time comes, we strike back with precision, not desperation."
The forest quieted, the echo of gunfire fading, leaving only the whisper of wind through the trees. Zahira's group moved cautiously, reestablishing watch rotations, double-checking barricades. Every shadow, every creaking branch reminded them that Ayoub Essouibrat remained undefeated, unpredictable, and more dangerous than ever.
As the first hints of dawn touched the ridge, Zahira allowed herself a moment to breathe. They were alive, and they had survived their first real test. But the war was far from over. Ayoub would return. And when he did, they needed to be ready.
With the clash behind them, the German timeline could now be put on stand-by, leaving Zahira's group prepared for later events, while the story pivoted to Sofiane's journey to the Netherlands in search of his child—a mission that would demand every skill, every ounce of cunning he possessed.