Maybe eight.
Men.
They emerged from the three cars with practiced coordination, their movements sharp, disciplined, efficient.
Black tactical vests.
Balaclavas.
Automatic rifles held low.
They swept the area first—checking angles, scanning for threats.
Then they converged.
On us.
On the wrecked SUV.
On me.
My heart dropped into something cold and still.
The driver’s door was wrenched open with a groan of tortured metal.
It sounded almost like the vehicle itself was screaming.
Rough hands seized the soldier by the collar and dragged him out into the daylight.
His head snapped to the side as they pulled him free, blood already streaming from a deep gash across his forehead.
His seatbelt had saved him from being thrown clear during the crash—but it hadn’t spared him from the violence of the impact.
He groaned once.
Dazed.
Before they hauled him away without ceremony—like something that no longer mattered.
Like cargo.
His body disappeared around the side of one of the sedans.
Gone.
Just like that.
Then—
it was my turn.
The rear passenger door was torn open with a violent screech, hinges protesting as if they might snap off entirely.
Two masked men leaned in immediately.
One seized my arm.
The other grabbed my ankle.
