Not long after, the lead Unimog came to a sudden halt. Malik slammed the brakes, jolting Tyto awake. Viktor leaned out the window and shouted,

  “Stay close! Command wants radio silence. We’re rerouting—heading south!”

  The Land Cruiser pulled up alongside. Louis rolled down the window.

  “We’re not crossing Spero Bridge?”

  “It was blown—last night,” Malik said. He sounded awkward. Having your former teammate reassigned to the rear vehicle said more than words could.

  “So you did hear,” Viktor muttered.

  “I caught it on the radio,” Malik replied.

  They veered south, threading carefully between the river gorge and patches of scrub. As dusk settled, they camped along a hillside. Richard pulled Tyto aside and showed him the tactical map.

  “There’s a smaller bridge nearby. It won’t support heavy armor, but our convoy should make it. Last I heard, it was still intact a month ago. The only unknown is—whose turf it is now.”

  By now, Richard had realized something. However abrasive Tyto’s presence was, he was the only one in the convoy worth discussing tactics with.

  Tyto nodded. “I remember—this area has more than just UN and the Resistance. There were independent militias too.”

  “If it’s locals, maybe a bribe works,” Richard said. “But if it’s the Resistance… they’ll take us apart before we open our mouths.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Maybe we could hide the guns and gear?” Gruba offered, stirring the pot.

  “You idiot,” Viktor snapped. “Our vehicles are the problem. What, you think they won’t search us? …What’re you cooking, anyway?”

  “Canned beef with tomato paste.”

  “God, I’m sick of rations. Even the smell makes me gag.”

  Richard was already prepping the drone. It flew, scouted, returned.

  At the far end of the bridge stood a makeshift checkpoint—brick walls, sandbags, a roof-mounted MG nest lit by a dim mercury lamp. A painted blue triangle and a black bar beneath marked the Resistance’s insignia. Armed men in old camo walked slow patrols, rifles slung across their backs.

  Richard studied the feed.

  “No way around it. We take it.”

  Tyto said, “Night vision gives us the edge. They likely don’t have it.”

  Richard looked over suddenly. “You haven’t told me your Gift.”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  “Silence.”

  That was why they called him Tyto.

  Richard smiled. It was a sharp, satisfied smile.

  “Then we move tonight.”

  Twilight bled across the valley. The Spero River narrowed at this stretch, but even in the dry season, its current could still be heard.

  Tyto lay beneath the roadside embankment, hidden among the tall grass and thorned brush.

  The checkpoint hadn’t powered the mercury lamp. Expected. These men didn’t have fuel to waste.

  Earlier, Richard had offered him Viktor as support.

  Tyto declined. “My Gift has a limited radius. One more body just means more noise.”

  At the checkpoint, two soldiers were rotating shift—both young, wearing worn fatigues and knit caps instead of helmets. They ambled toward Tyto’s side of the road, yawning.

  One pulled a crumpled cigarette from a leather bandolier. The other struck a match. They lit up, smoked in silence, stamping their boots against the cold.

  The stink of the cheap tobacco drifted downwind. Tyto didn’t wait.

  One bullet. The first man dropped.

  The second turned, confused. He dropped his cigarette, crouched, tried to flip his friend over. Blood poured from the chest. And the skull.

  He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His hand went to his throat—already hit. Two more rounds entered his chest before he could collapse.

  Tyto gave him a clean shot to the head.

  He moved forward. No footsteps, no rustle of fabric. The brush parted like it feared him.

  He reached the MG nest. Two men on overwatch—steel helmets dented and pocked.

  He climbed like a cat. Quick. Soundless.

  One to the back of the gunner’s head. The assistant turned—too late. Both bodies fell to the floorboards and sandbags without a sound. The blood pooled dark and slow.

  With the nest neutralized, he moved toward the main house.

  Inside, someone shouted,

  “Vitaly! Turn on the light! I can’t play in the damn dark!”

  They were using the courtyard lights to play cards.

  Tyto frowned. Vitaly?

  A second door opened. A squat soldier appeared.

  “You’re burning fuel so you can see cards? Get me more UN diesel and maybe we’ll talk!”

  “It’s dark anyway!” someone yelled back. “Turn it on already!”

  The fat soldier grumbled, pushed into a smaller room. A filthy curtain hung at the door. Tyto guessed—generator room.

  He dropped from the rooftop. Silent.

  Inside, an oil lamp burned over an old diesel generator. Vitaly knelt to check the fuel gauge, still cursing.

  Tyto slipped in with the shadows.

  Two to the chest. One to the head.

  Vitaly twitched, then fell face-first. Blood spread behind his neck. Tyto killed the generator. The room dimmed. He cut the main line with his blade and left.

  Back outside, the card room had lit a kerosene lamp. Too impatient to wait for the MG post.

  From the window, voices drifted:

  “Where the hell’s Vitaly? It’s pitch black up there.”

  “Probably fussing with his stupid machine again. Goddamn it—busted again!”

  Laughter.

  Tyto slid a flashbang from his pouch. Cool and dense in the hand. He watched the window, pulled the pin, and lobbed it through the gap.

  It bounced once. Twice. Came to rest beneath the table.

  “Hey, what the—”

  The flash burned white. The bang shattered the quiet. The oil lamp died in the blast.

  Outside, the wind rustled through sand and dust.

  Tyto pressed against the wall. Watched the flickering shadows on the floorboards. No hesitation. He slipped inside.

  The men were on the ground, writhing—some clutching ears, others blinded. He stepped over them. Gun up.

  One reaching for a dropped rifle—two shots to the chest, one to the head.

  “One.”

  One rubbing his eyes in the corner—shot clean through the skull.

  “Two.”

  One crawling for the exit—he knelt behind him, muzzle to the neck.

  “Three.”

  He stepped over the fresh corpses. No noise. No wasted motion.

  Room to room, he cleared the checkpoint. Maps. Files. Weapons.

  Then—noise.

  Voices outside. Footsteps. The clatter of gear. Slurred curses.

  A patrol. Returning.

  Tyto raised his rifle.