Paul held his breath as he counted—one… three… five… eight. Then he turned quietly, raising his hands and showing eight fingers.
Lang's brow furrowed for a brief moment before he gave a sharp nod. Without a word, he slid closer to Paul, pulling back the bolt of his rifle and chambering a round with a muted click.
Paul scanned the grass, trying to spot Fischer or Weber, who were hidden a short distance away. Finally, he caught sight of one of them. Their eyes met, and Paul gave a quick thumbs-up, still pressed low against the ground.
The four German officers began to move forward, pushing slowly through the tall grass, edging closer to the unsuspecting Spaniards.
Meanwhile, the Spanish soldiers jumped off the truck, all except for the driver. They walked over to Guiseppe, asking him something, their rifles half-raised.
After a short exchange in Spanish, they seemed to relax, lowering their rifles, some even leaning on them.
It's now or never, Paul thought, his muzzle tracking every movement of one of the Spanish soldiers. He knew the others would open fire the moment a single shot rang out.
"Now!" he hissed toward Lang.
Lang didn't hesitate. His rifle thundered, the shot cracking through the valley. The first Spaniard dropped before he even knew what hit him.
Paul squeezed the trigger a miliesecond later, his target too, collapsing against the truck's wheel. Fischer and Weber opened up from the flank, their fire cutting into the confused soldiers who only now realized they were under attack.
Shouts in Spanish filled the air, rifles swung up in panic, but it was too late. Four men were already down, the others stumbling for cover that wasn't there. The driver, still in the cab, gunned the engine in panic, but the truck only lurched forward a few meters before stalling in the dirt.
Guiseppe lay frozen on the ground, exactly where Paul had placed him, his eyes wide with terror as bullets cracked above his head.
One Man after another fell, scream echoing through the valley, before they stopped.
All that remained was the shrill whine of the stalling engine.
Weber and Fischer burst from their hiding spots, shouting at the driver to kill the engine, their rifles leveled at him.
The driver quickly complied. Seeing what had happened to his comrades, he didn't want the same fate for himself. He turned off the engine and stepped out of the truck, hands raised high in the air.
Weber and Fischer quickly grabbed him, constraining his hands and pushing him on his knees.
Paul and Lang, whose hiding spot was further away, also arrived at the scene.
Lang looked at Weber and Fischer complimenting them: "Good work, men"
Paul nodded too, yet his eyes narrowed. He stepped closer to the driver. Do you have any weapons on you?" he asked, voice low and controlled.
Fischer quickly translated into Spanish, his words crisp and deliberate. The driver shook his head violently, hands still raised. Fischer repeated, "He says no, he has nothing."
Paul pressed his lips together. Something inside him didn't believe it. After witnessing what happened to Hermann, he wasn't going to repeat that carelessness. He motioned sharply. "Search him."
Weber moved forward, patting the driver down systematically. Paul's eyes never left the man, the tension coiling inside him.
For a moment, nothing. Then Weber's hand froze, brushing against a small, hidden pistol tucked in the driver's waistband. Paul's pulse quickened. He stared at the gun, then back at the driver.
Before anyone else could react, Paul's fist shot up. He lunged forward, slamming it into the man's jaw. The driver groaned, staggering and clutching his face.
Paul struck again, pounding the driver into the dirt, sending him sprawling. Blood ran from the man's nose and mouth. Before Paul could land another devastating hit, a hand gripped his arm and collar, pulling him away from the driver, who by now was half-conscious, bleeding, and severely swollen.
"Take a hold of yourself, Jeager!"Lang shouted.
"Heinrich… that was excessive," Lang said, his voice sharp. "He's barely conscious. You didn't need to beat him like that."
Paul shrugged, not meeting Lang's gaze. "Better he's scared than dead," he said quietly, brushing dust from his uniform. "We can't afford mistakes. One wrong move and we're all dead."
Lang's eyes searched Paul's face, looking for hesitation, regret, anything—but found none. He let out a long breath and stepped back, muttering, "You've changed, Jeager…"
"I have adapted, if that's what you mean, Major," Paul replied, his voice steady. "And you should, too."
Lang's jaw tightened, but he said nothing more. Paul turned back to the driver, who was groaning weakly on the ground, blood streaked across his face.
"Pick him up," Paul said to Weber, his tone flat. "Check for anything else that bastard is hiding."
Paul's eyes scanned the driver quickly, inspecting every movement, every twitch. He spotted the pistol lying in the dirt where Weber had pulled it out, and kicked it aside, making sure it was out of reach.
Lang spoke again, his voice low and pressing. "We move. There could be more. And before that, we have to change." A slight grin escaped his face.
They moved fast. Paul and Weber stripped the fallen Spaniards of their jackets and belts, while Fischer and Lang guarded the driver.
Their loot was plenty, water, some food and some papers, who Paul handed to Fischer.
"Those look like they are courier papers," Fischer said, translating. "Small patrol, rotating routes. Good enough."
Then they heard groan, it was Guiseppe who sat up with effort. Lang helped him into a spare jacket, wiping blood and dust from his face, with the edge of the uniform. Guisseppe's hands shook, but he put the cap low and tried to look like any other tired soldier. Fischer coached him and the others in Spanish, a few short phrases: where they were from, what unit he they were with, a simple excuse about a stalled wagon.
Weber and Fischer then looked at the driver, exchanging uncertain glances. They weren't sure what to do with him. Their eyes searched for Lang and Paul, who were still rummaging through the truck for anything useful.
"What should we do with the driver?" Weber asked, not sure which of the two to address. Although Lang outranked Paul by far, Paul had that natural talent for command and often suggested things to Lang, who almost always agreed.
Paul stood straight, eyes fixed on the driver. "We can't leave him here," he said, voice low but firm. "He knows too much. If he wakes up, he'll warn others. We take him with us or we make him disappear..."
Lang shook his head, frowning. "No. He slows us down, makes too much noise. We can't afford the risk. Better to leave him tied up somewhere safe and keep moving. And I won't kill that man, you won't too. Do we understand each other?"
Paul frowend:"But—"
"Enough," Lang snapped, cold and commanding. "He stays here. Tied and gagged. That's the order. You obey."
Paul's fists tightened, but he did not argue. Lang outranked him, and in that moment the chain of command was clear.
Either the man will die of thirst, a crueller fate than a quick shot, or he'll be found and warn others, and that would get us all killed, Paul thought, anger simmering just below the surface.
After cooling down for some time and adjusting their new uniforms, they hopped on the truck. Fischer on the drivers seat and Lang besides him. Paul, Weber and Guiseppe in the back.
Fischer eased the truck onto the track. The engine coughed, found its rhythm, and they rolled away, dust rising in a thin trail behind them. The landscape slid past, dry grass, stone walls, and the low shapes of olive trees. The road led them toward the darkening horizon.
The sun dipped slow and red, burning out the last heat of the day. For a moment everything looked almost calm, as if the world had forgiven them. Paul watched the light fade. They had survived another day in this hellhole.
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