Putting distance between myself and Rose’s camp, I reached for the tactical radio on my collar.
“All units.
Report.”
Static hissed through my earpiece as the stealth strike team, who had quietly neutralized the Right Attack Picket on the Rocky Knoll, checked in one by one.
Their voices were crisp, low, and filtered through noise-canceling comms.
“Unit One, green.” “Unit Two, operational.” “Unit Three, standing by.”
“Commence dark retreat,” I instructed.
“Fall back to the secondary rally point.”
“Copy that, Chief.
Moving out.”
I turned to slip toward the outlying pickets, but the night had other plans.
Torchlight flickered through the brush ahead, and before I could duck into the treeline, I walked straight into a British mounted patrol.
The commanding officer—a Lieutenant—reined in his horse.
His gaze locked onto me, cold and instantly suspicious.
Swinging down from his saddle, he strode forward, his boots heavy against the dry earth.
“You there!
State your name.
I haven’t seen you around this sector.”
My blood ran ice-cold.
My grip tightened around the straps of my bag until my knuckles turned white.
Air caught in my throat, forcing a harsh, involuntary swallow as I fought to keep my posture rigid.
“Sir…
I—I am from Sir Stuart’s Brigade,” I stammered, forcing breath into a tightening chest.
“You don’t say?” The Lieutenant’s eyes narrowed into sharp slits.
“I command under Sir Stuart as well.
Which regiment?”
My pulse hammered against my eardrums like a war drum.
Sweat pooled beneath my heavy tunic, slicking my palms against the canvas fabric as I strove to conceal the violent twitching in my fingers.
My vision narrowed; every instinct screamed at me to draw the sidearm concealed at my hip and drop him where he stood.
But a single gunshot would light up the entire encampment.
“Which regiment, soldier?” he repeated, taking a slow step forward.
“Answer me.”
Involuntarily, my boots shifted back an inch.
The Lieutenant picked up on the micro-movement instantly.
His torso hunched, his jaw set, and his right hand dropped to the hilt of his sabre.
The metallic click of a scabbard unlatching cut through the quiet night air.
Just as he prepared to lunge, a booming voice cut through the darkness.
“What is the meaning of this commotion?
Are you two quite finished playing games?”
A tall silhouette strode into the torchlight—Rose’s own Aide-de-Camp.
My stomach plummeted into a fathomless pit.
Despair settled into my ribs like lead.
He knows.
He went back to the tent.
He found the missing General.
“What is this man doing here?” the Lieutenant demanded, keeping his hand on his sabre.
The ADC stepped directly between us, waving a dismissive hand.
“He’s under Sir Stuart, Lieutenant.
A recruit, transferred to my detail just hours ago.
First major operation, poor lad.
For God’s sake, lower your steel.” This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
The sheer irony hit me like a physical blow.
My mind reeled.
He has no idea.
The man who had unknowingly assisted in his own General’s kidnapping was now fiercely defending the kidnapper against his own comrade.
The panic evaporated, replaced by an icy, hyper-focused calm.
I fell into step behind the ADC, offering quiet, contrite nods that corroborated his story.
Flustered and outmaneuvered, the Lieutenant grunted in frustration, released his sabre, and turned away.
I bowed humbly to the ADC.
Before retreating into the shadows, I reached out and clasped his hand with quiet, solemn intensity.
“Sir…
I urge you to withdraw your post from this sector immediately,” I murmured beneath my breath.
“A tempest is about to hit this camp.
Please, heed my warning.”
The ADC chuckled, patting my shoulder with condescending warmth.
“You speak in strange riddles, young man!
Now get back to your detail.”
With a light laugh, he turned and headed back toward the General’s empty tent.
I broke into a fast, silent march, putting several kilometers between myself and the British perimeter before rendezvousing with my men in the shadows along the northwest ridge.
“All set?” I asked, breathing heavily.
“Awaiting your command, Chief.”
“We bypass the main picket lines,” I ordered, gesturing toward the rugged terrain ahead.
“We cut northwest.”
We plunged into the dry, rocky nullahs, the natural erosion gullies that slashed through the earth toward Bangra Hill.
British military doctrine dismissed these steep, fractured ravines as impassable for heavy transport, meaning their patrols rarely glanced twice at them.
The trap was set.
The sky was dark.
The death march had begun.