Sofia’s foot slipped in the thick mud, and she instinctively grabbed Przemek’s arm to steady herself. Her sudden weight threw him off balance, and he nearly lost his footing, catching himself at the last moment. “Sorry,” she whispered, barely audible.

Ahead of them, Jonathan spun around, his face a shadow in the pitch black, and made a sharp, forceful motion with his hand—a silent demand for quiet. Neither Sofia nor Przemek saw it in the oppressive darkness, but they felt his frustration radiate through the air. The rain had stopped hours ago, leaving the night eerily still. Now, the only sounds were the faint rustling of wind through the trees, the occasional chirp of unseen wildlife, and the squelching of their boots in the soaked earth. The silence was oppressive, amplifying every misplaced step and ragged breath.

It was past midnight, the moon hidden behind a ceiling of heavy clouds, leaving the trio in a near-total void. The damp air clung to their skin as they trudged forward along the narrow stretch of muddy streambed that ran parallel to the road. The last vehicle—a VW Transporter they knew was hunting for them—had passed nearly half an hour ago, its engine growling like a predator in the distance. But Jonathan remained on edge, more paranoid than ever.

Sofia and Przemek, exhausted and injured, barely kept up with his silent, determined pace. They clung to each other’s backpacks, desperate not to lose track of one another in the darkness. Neither of them could see a thing, and both silently hoped Jonathan had some semblance of a plan—or at least an idea of where they were headed.

Every so often, Jonathan stopped abruptly, dropping into a crouch and scanning the darkness ahead. His hand brushed the thermal scope hanging from his neck, a souvenir from the "officer" he had killed earlier in the afternoon. It was supposed to be their edge, their lifeline in the dark, but the damn thing wouldn’t turn on. He’d tried everything, but the scope was useless—a cruel joke in a life-or-death situation. It could’ve meant the difference between surviving and disappearing into the abyss like so many others.

The mud sucked at their boots, each step a fight. They moved slowly, cautiously, every second feeling like an eternity. Normally, the journey along this stretch would’ve taken half the time, but injuries, heavy packs of stolen supplies, and the wretched conditions weighed them down. Still, they pushed on.

Then it came—a sound.

Jonathan froze mid-step, his body going rigid. Sofia and Przemek nearly collided with him, their hearts leaping at his sudden stop. The noise was faint, but unmistakable: something had disturbed the water upstream. A splash, too deliberate to be the wind or wildlife. It carried across the silence like a warning.

Jonathan dropped to one knee, signaling for them to do the same. Sofia and Przemek followed, sinking into the mud without hesitation. Their breathing slowed as they strained to hear more. The sound came again—closer this time. Whatever it was, it was moving through the stream, breaking the water’s surface with deliberate steps.

Jonathan lifted the useless thermal scope to his eye out of instinct, even though he knew it was dead weight. He cursed under his breath, barely audible but heavy with frustration. His grip on the rifle tightened.

Sofia and Przemek huddled behind him, their eyes darting wildly in the darkness. They couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. Przemek’s fingers brushed the hilt of his knife, his heartbeat pounding like a drum in his ears.

The footsteps were drawing nearer, slow and steady. Whatever was out there, it wasn’t in a hurry.

Jonathan gestured for them to stay low, his movements precise, urgent. His knuckles were white around his weapon as he pointed it toward the sound, ready to fire if necessary. The world seemed to shrink to this moment, the silence now an unbearable weight.

Then, the splashing stopped.

Everything was still, save for the faint rustle of leaves in the wind. Whatever was out there had stopped moving—but it was close. Too close.

The trio waited, muscles tense, breaths shallow, ears straining for the next sound.

Jonathan strained his ears, trying to discern whether the figure was alone or part of a group. The darkness played tricks on his senses, and he felt every nerve in his body tighten. Then, a sudden splash broke the stillness—Przemek's foot had slipped into the water. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the suffocating silence.

All three of them froze, their breaths caught in their throats. Jonathan listened intently, desperate to know if the figure had heard. The footsteps had stopped. Whoever—or whatever—it was, it was standing still now. The wind whispered through the trees, masking some sounds but sharpening the tension in the air. Then Jonathan’s stomach sank as he realized the figure was moving—slowly, deliberately—down the bank toward them.

The intruder’s movements were precise, matching the rhythm of the wind as it rustled the vegetation. They were skilled, methodical, and eerily quiet. Jonathan stayed motionless, his eyes fixed on the direction of the sound. Hell, this guy is good, he thought grimly. He couldn’t risk firing his weapon—not when he couldn’t see his target and not when a muzzle flash would give away their position.

His mind raced through options, each more desperate than the last. Then he realized the figure had dropped low, likely crawling toward their position. Whoever it was didn’t know how close they already were. Jonathan’s hand moved with painstaking slowness as he drew his knife from its sheath. The faint glimmer of moonlight reflected off the blade, catching Przemek’s eye.

The sound of crawling grew closer. Jonathan’s breath quickened, though he kept his body perfectly still. Was it a lunatic? A soldier? An animal? Przemek prayed silently, begging for the intruder to pass by. Then the sound stopped. The wind returned, rustling the leaves, but there was no movement. For a moment, Jonathan thought they might have retreated.

And then he heard it: the faint splash of water, less than a meter to his right. His heart pounded as he felt something disturb the ground beside him. A hand. Light and deliberate, it grazed the edge of his boot. Jonathan’s mind screamed at him, every fiber of his being fighting the urge to react. This is insane, he thought. This is beyond anything I can handle. The hand hesitated, clearly realizing it had touched warm leather. Slowly, it began to withdraw.

Jonathan’s mind teetered on the edge of panic. He needed the courage to act. Do it. Jump. The thought was like a shout in his head.

With a surge of adrenaline, Jonathan lunged forward into the water, his knife slicing through the darkness. The blade sank into flesh, and a guttural "UGH" tore from the figure as the air was driven from their lungs. The two fell into the stream, water splashing violently around them. Jonathan didn’t stop. He yanked the knife free and struck again, feeling the blade sink deep. The figure thrashed beneath him, their gasps for air mingling with the sound of rushing water.

Jonathan’s grip tightened as the stranger’s hand shot up, grabbing at his face, then fumbling for the knife. The intruder’s desperation fueled Jonathan’s fury, and he stabbed blindly, again and again, his strikes wild but relentless. The water grew thicker and warmer around him, the iron scent of blood rising in the humid night air.

"I GOT HIM! I GOT HIM!" Jonathan shouted hoarsely, his voice carrying over the chaos. His words were meant for Sofia and Przemek—an assurance that he was in control, a plea for them not to fire blindly into the darkness.

The figure’s movements weakened, their grip loosening until it finally slipped away. Jonathan stayed crouched in the stream, chest heaving, his knife still clutched in his hand. The water rippled around him, the silence returning in waves, broken only by his ragged breathing and the distant rustle of wind.

He didn’t dare look at what he had done. Not yet.

The struggling stopped, and Jonathan felt the water around him grow thick and warm. His chest heaved as he realized just how out of breath he was, his hands still gripping the man’s lifeless face. Slowly, he rose from the stream, the blood-soaked water trailing off him as he stood, catching his breath for half a minute before finally breaking the silence.

"Are you okay?" Jonathan asked, his voice low and hoarse.

Przemek and Sofia didn’t immediately answer. Even with their hardened exteriors, even it the pitch dark Sofia and Przemek couldn't be untouched by what they’d just witnessed. Their silence spoke louder than any words could.

Jonathan turned back to inspect the body in the dark. Feeling his way over the man’s form, it became clear he was around the same height and weight as Jonathan. Relief washed over him when he recognized the familiar texture of Swedish military fatigues. Thank God. At least he hadn’t killed some random poor soul caught in this nightmare.

As he continued searching, his fingers brushed against a holster at the man’s hip. Inside was a pistol—a Glock—and Jonathan silently cursed the man for not having it ready. Your mistake, not mine. He took the weapon, along with an extra magazine, tucking the pistol in an empty magazine pouch on his vest and secured the mag in his cargo pouch.

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Satisfied, Jonathan reached out to pat Przemek on the shoulder but misjudged in the darkness, accidentally smacking his head instead. Przemek flinched, startled, but Jonathan quickly hushed him. “Let’s go. The faster we’re out of these fields and into the woods, the better,” he said in his tired, broken English.

They crawled up the embankment and onto the road. The paved surface, slick as it was, allowed them to move faster than the mud below. They knew they were vulnerable here but had no choice. Every second counted—they had to reach the safety of the forest before dawn. Throwing caution to the wind, they pushed on, their pace quickened by the urgency of escape.

A shout pierced the night, freezing them in their tracks. Without hesitation, they threw themselves into the ditch. But as Przemek rolled into cover, he noticed Sofia still standing in the middle of the road, paralyzed by confusion. Heart pounding, he scrambled back to drag her into the ditch, cursing under his breath.

Jonathan raised his head just enough to peek over the edge of the road. Down the stretch of asphalt, he saw it: a red chemical light glowing faintly in the dark. Beside it, silhouetted against the light, was the outline of a van. The transporter. The same one that had passed them earlier. Two figures stood near it, their movements hurried and tense.

“Mikael!” one of the men shouted, his voice cutting through the silence.

Jonathan’s gut twisted. Mikael. It didn’t take long to put the pieces together. The man he had just taken out was Mikael—and now they were looking for him.

“They’re looking for the guy I just took down,” Jonathan whispered to the others.

Przemek crawled closer, his voice barely above a breath. “How many?”

“Two,” Jonathan replied. “Maybe three. I can’t tell for sure. We’re not passing them quietly. Don’t move.”

Jonathan peeked again, trying to make out more detail. He could see their boots, the faint gleam of weapons in their hands, but the darkness kept their numbers unclear. His hand instinctively reached into his cargo pocket, fingers brushing against something cold and metallic. A hand grenade. This is insane.

He closed his eyes for a moment, biting his lip as he steadied himself. His heart was pounding in his ears, but he forced his hand to remain steady. Sofia and Przemek watched him intently, their breaths shallow.

Something shifted. One of the soldiers stiffened, his head turning slightly toward their direction. Did they hear me? See me? Jonathan’s gut clenched as he felt their focus shift.

He slid the pin from the grenade as quietly as he could. His hand tightened around the device, his fingers trembling with the weight of the decision. A whistle tore through the night, loud and piercing. He had done it to grab their attention—and it worked.

The world seemed to hold its breath. The soldiers froze, momentarily confused.

Jonathan hurled the grenade toward the red chemical light with all the force he could muster, his arm arcing in the darkness. The device clattered to the ground near the van. A moment of silence followed, pregnant with dread.

Then it exploded.

The blast roared like thunder, lighting up the night for a split second. Shrapnel whizzed through the air like a deadly swarm of hornets. Jonathan ducked instinctively, pressing himself into the ground as debris rained down around him. The soldiers’ shouts of confusion and pain filled the air, mingling with the ringing in his ears.

Without hesitation, Jonathan flicked on his headlamp and raised his head to assess the chaos. The scene before him was one of utter disarray.

Jonathan’s headlamp illuminated the aftermath. Three men lay on the ground. One was writhing in agony, clutching at his torso, while the other two were still. One of them had his legs shattered, mangled beyond recognition by the grenade. The blast had done its work perfectly.

Jonathan turned off his headlamp, letting the night swallow him again. He stood still, staring at what he had wrought. The man who was still alive groaned in pain, his body riddled with fragments of metal, wood, and debris. Splinters, rocks, and shards of asphalt jutted from his flesh, his body a broken testament to the violence of the explosion.

Jonathan flicked the light back on to inspect the van. It was a mess—shrapnel had torn into the sides, cracking windows and embedding in the frame. Satisfied there was nothing more of value, he turned back to the carnage. The sight of the bodies churned something deep in his stomach. I did this.

They had hunted him and his companions, carried out unspeakable acts, but now—broken and lifeless—they almost seemed pitiful. He shook the thought away. Fuck them.

Jonathan let his breath steady as he turned his back to the writhing man, ready to leave. But behind him, the soldier wasn’t finished. Through the haze of pain, the man’s hand fumbled toward his pistol. His fingers closed around the grip, and he raised it with shaking effort, taking aim at Jonathan’s exposed back.

A gunshot shattered the stillness. Jonathan flinched, spinning around, expecting to feel the burn of a bullet. Instead, his light caught the soldier slumping to the ground, the pistol dropping from his grip. Blood pooled beneath him.

Jonathan’s eyes shifted to Sofia, who stood a few paces away, her machine gun still raised, smoke curling from the barrel. She stared in his direction, her face blank, almost detached.

“Don’t shine it in my eyes, for fuck’s sake,” she said flatly, her voice breaking the spell. She turned to look at Przemek, who stood silent nearby, before brushing past Jonathan without another word.

Jonathan followed her gaze, his headlamp briefly catching the lifeless bodies on the ground. He crouched down and did as Przemek had—taking ammunition from one of the vests. His hands worked methodically, almost mechanically, before he finally joined his companions. Together, they disappeared into the treeline, the first pale hints of dawn beginning to light the horizon behind them.

They walked in silence as the sun crept higher. None of them noticed the faint silhouettes in the distance—a pack of shadowy figures stalking them from the coastal neighborhood they had left behind. Silent, calculating, the pack kept them within sight.

A few minutes passed as they trudged through the undergrowth. Taking a moment to breath in the cover of the vegetation Przemek cursed under his breath, blaming himself for dozing off earlier. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to keep himself awake, checking his MAG for the fifth time. He had assembled it back, knowing he might need the firepower very soon. Beside him, Sofia sat with her head tilted slightly forward. He nudged her lightly to ensure she wasn’t drifting off, too. She gave a small, irritated grunt but didn’t open her eyes.

Jonathan was sitting nearby, his rifle balanced across his lap. Even in the faint light, Przemek could make out the tension etched on his face. Jonathan had caught on to it, too—that sound.

As the first light of dawn broke through the overgrown forest canopy, the trio quickened their pace. For the first time in hours, they could see where they were stepping, making the uneven bike path slightly easier to navigate. Ten minutes earlier, Jonathan had double-checked the map, confirming they were still on course. He had deliberately avoided main roads, sticking to forest trails and farm paths to reduce the chance of being spotted.

Przemek, running on fumes, found his mind slipping. Fatigue tugged at him, and he would doze off mid-step, snapping awake only to realize he was several meters ahead of where he last remembered walking. This time, it wasn’t exhaustion that jolted him—Sofia pinched his arm sharply, her grip hard and urgent.

“Keep walking. Don’t turn around,” she hissed, her voice low but tinged with panic.

“What is it?” he whispered back.

“We’re being followed. Maybe a hundred meters behind us.”

Przemek’s stomach dropped. His hand reflexively gripped the cocking handle of the machine gun slung across his front. He pulled the bolt back, chambering a round with a metallic clack, and flipped open the bipod in one smooth motion.

Jonathan, a few steps ahead, caught the sound and turned slightly, still walking. “What’s going on?” he asked, his voice calm but deliberate.

“We’re being followed,” Przemek said. “You know what a fishhook is, right?”

Jonathan’s gaze hardened. “Just say the word,” he replied, his voice cold and steady as he readied his rifle.

The three continued walking for another thirty seconds, the tension building with every step. They reached a sharp bend in the path, one that would momentarily block the view of anyone following them. As they rounded the turn, Przemek hissed, “Here, left, left!”

The trio darted into the treeline, weaving through the dense undergrowth until they were parallel to the trail, about ten meters inside. They formed a loose line, each dropping into position. Przemek set up the machine gun, unfolding the bipod and laying flat. He shrugged off his backpack, careful to keep quiet, and turned to Jonathan.

“Ready your guns,” he whispered. “Jonathan, you give the signal. Don’t shoot until I open up.”

Jonathan nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on the path. Przemek leaned toward Sofia. “How do you know we’re being followed?”

“I just… I just know,” she replied, her voice trembling slightly. “I thought I heard noises earlier, but I wasn’t sure. After we passed through that last woodline and broke some branches, I heard it again—closer this time.”

Jonathan tensed, his knuckles whitening around his rifle. Przemek tried to lighten the mood, forcing a smile. “Ha, good job,” he said, though his attempt at humor fell flat. His own fear was palpable.

Despite the adrenaline coursing through him, Przemek was dangerously close to exhaustion. Lying down didn’t help—his body screamed for rest, but his mind wouldn’t let him relax. He chewed on random leaves he plucked from the ground, desperate to stay awake. By the time the faint sound of footsteps reached them, he had checked his magazine belt a dozen times.

The footsteps grew louder, each crunch of gravel and snap of twigs sending fresh jolts of anxiety through the trio. Jonathan’s body lowered instinctively, his tension evident even in the faint light filtering through the trees. Przemek, barely able to contain himself, peeked just above the bush in front of him.

A line of people walked down the path, their silhouettes stark against the rain-soaked ground. Even from this distance, their expressions seemed serious—grim, determined, and unbothered by the worsening terrain. Przemek couldn’t count them all. They moved with a strange uniformity, their bodies rigid as they marched through the downpour. Madmen, he thought. Despite the danger, he found it almost funny that no one had come up with a proper name for them.

He ducked back down, his heart racing. Jonathan pressed him lower, shaking his head firmly. They were too many—easily fifty or sixty people, by Przemek’s quick estimation. Two of them carried rifles, the rest armed with crude weapons: machetes, hammers, even wooden stakes. The trio didn’t stand a chance in a firefight.

Jonathan laid flat beside them, his breathing controlled but shallow. They waited, every second dragging on like an eternity. The footsteps passed, slow and deliberate, until the group was finally out of sight. Only when the last sound of movement faded did Jonathan rise cautiously, scanning the trail to confirm they were clear.

“Fifty, sixty?” Przemek asked, his voice barely audible.

Jonathan nodded grimly. “Seems about right. We’d better move before they realize we’re not on the trail anymore.”

Jonathan slung his backpack over his shoulder and turned to head deeper into the forest. Before he could move, Przemek grabbed his arm. “You know where you’re going?”

Jonathan’s voice was sharp, his exhaustion creeping into his tone. “You want to carry the map and lead the way? Go at it.”

Przemek let go, muttering something under his breath, and Jonathan disappeared into the dense overgrowth, Sofia and Przemek close on his heels. Behind them, the rain fell heavier, masking their trail as they vanished into the forest.