Chapter 37 - 37:

Words : 1253 Updated : Sep 10th, 2025

The march had been relentless, but the tension had only grown heavier. Every kilometer they covered brought them closer to headquarters, but also closer to the unknown. "Marchand!" Moreau called, eyes locked ahead. His scout turned immediately, adjusting his rifle on his shoulder. "Sir!" Moreau's voice was firm, commanding. "I want eyes ahead. No more fucking surprises. Take your fastest men and get moving. Do not engage unless absolutely necessary. If you see anything suspicious, report immediately. Got it?" Marchand gave a sharp nod. "Understood. We'll be ghosts." "Make sure of it, because if we walk into another shitstorm, I swear to God, someone's going to fucking pay." Without another word, Marchand and two other scouts sprinted ahead, vanishing into the trees. He didn't trust this. Not one damn bit. Marchand moved like a phantom through the trees, his footsteps muffled by the damp forest floor. His men followed close, breathing steady, eyes scanning every possible angle. The base was only 30 kilometers away. Too close. Too easy. Something's wrong. Marchand halted suddenly, raising a fist. The other two scouts froze. He crouched low, peering through the undergrowth. Then, he saw it. His blood ran cold. "Merde…" Ahead, blocking the only direct road to headquarters, was a heavily fortified barricade. Sandbags, makeshift cover, and at least fifty men. And they weren't just standing guard. They were ready for war. Machine guns mounted on wooden defenses. Snipers positioned on trees and overlooking ridges. A fucking kill zone. "What the fuck is this?" whispered one of the scouts. Marchand didn't answer. His breath was slow, controlled, his heartbeat hammering in his chest. He needed to get closer. Motioning his men to hold position, Marchand crept forward, inching his way toward the barricade. The troops on the other side were talking, barking orders. Then, he heard it. "Orders are clear. If anyone approaches, shoot first. No warnings. No fucking negotiations." Marchand's heart pounded against his ribs. This wasn't just a blockade. This was an ambush. Marchand turned, raising a hand to signal his men to pull back. They had what they needed. But just as he shifted, his boot nudged a loose stone. A sharp crack echoed in the quiet forest. Fuck. The enemy whirled toward the sound. "WHO'S THERE?!" Marchand froze. For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Then "FIRE!" The world exploded in gunfire. Bullets ripped through the trees, shredding bark and kicking up dirt. Marchand threw himself sideways, rolling into a ditch as a hailstorm of lead tore through where he had just been. seaʀᴄh thё NôvelFire.nёt website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. His men scattered. One dove behind a fallen log, screaming as a round grazed his shoulder. The other hit the ground hard, crawling through mud as bullets rained down. "FALL BACK! MOVE!" Marchand bellowed, his voice barely audible over the chaos. A sniper zeroed in on him. Marchand felt it. That brief moment before death. Then A gunshot. Not his. Not the enemy's. His scout the one with the wounded shoulder had fired first. The sniper's head snapped back, his rifle dropping from the tree. Marchand didn't wait to see if he was dead. He ran. His lungs burned, his legs screamed, but he didn't stop. The enemy was still firing, bullets zipping past his ears, snapping branches as he tore through the undergrowth. Then, finally Silence. The gunfire stopped. They had made it. Barely. Moreau had heard the shots the moment they started. By the time Marchand burst from the treeline, covered in mud and blood, Moreau already knew. They were walking into a fucking massacre. Marchand didn't need to say a word. His eyes said everything. Moreau turned to Renaud. "How many?" Marchand gasped for air. "Fifty, at least. Fortifications. Machine guns. Snipers. Kill zone. They're not guarding the road. They're waiting for us." A cold rage settled in Moreau's stomach. This wasn't a mistake. This was a goddamn execution. He turned to his men, his voice sharp, commanding. "Load every fucking weapon. This isn't a standoff. This is war." The soldiers moved fast, rifles clicking, magazines slamming into place. "Renaud. You take half the men and push left through the trees. No straight fucking path. They'll cut us to pieces." Renaud nodded. "Understood. What about the tank?" Moreau's jaw tightened. "We use it to draw fire. Full frontal push. We keep it moving. We get close, then we break their fucking lines." One soldier, younger, looked nervous. "Sir… they have more men, heavier guns… we're outnumbered." Moreau turned to him, eyes cold. "You scared, Private?" The soldier stiffened. "No, sir. Just… this is suicide." Moreau let out a slow breath. Then he stepped closer, his voice lowering. "They want us to break. They want us to panic. They want us to kneel and let them put a bullet in our heads. You know what I say?" The men watched him, tense. Waiting. Moreau's lips curled into a dangerous smirk. "I say fuck that." Renaud let out a chuckle. "Damn right." Moreau turned to the tank commander. "Start the engine. Load the main gun. The moment we get a clear shot at those fucking fortifications, I want firepower that will make them piss themselves." He grinned. "With pleasure, Capitaine." The moment Moreau finished barking his orders, the camp was full with motion, rifles being loaded, magazines slammed into place, boots shifting in the dirt, men preparing for war. Then, from the side, a slow, mocking chuckle came through. Moreau turned his head sharply. The captured lieutenant, still bound, sat slumped against a tree, his uniform dirtied. But he was grinning. "I told you, didn't I, Moreau? Court-martial… or death." His voice oozed satisfaction, even in his current state. He let out another low, deliberate laugh. "Looks like your superiors chose death for you. Fifty men, a fortified position, machine guns, and no reinforcements? You've already lost." Moreau's jaw clenched, but before he could speak A soldier moved first. A brutal kick slammed into the lieutenant's ribs, sending him sprawling onto his side, coughing and gasping. Then another soldier stepped in. Then another. Fists and boots rained down, vengeance pouring from every blow. "You fucking traitorous dog!" "You think this is funny?! You set us up!" The prisoners every single one of them were suddenly at the mercy of furious French soldiers. There was no hesitation. They weren't just captives anymore. They were dead men who just hadn't stopped breathing yet. Moreau didn't intervene. Not this time. He watched as rage was unleashed, as men stomped and struck, as every ounce of frustration and hatred boiled over. Even the youngest soldiers joined in, fists slamming into faces, boots driving into stomachs. It was pure, unfiltered vengeance. By the time the assault stopped, the prisoners lay unconscious, faces swollen, blood pooling into the dirt. Moreau finally stepped forward, glancing down at the lieutenant's ruined face. His breathing was still shallow, but he wouldn't be laughing again anytime soon. A sharp chuckle broke the silence. Moreau turned to see Renaud standing beside him, arms crossed, shaking his head with a grin. "Well…" Renaud smirked. "At least we don't have to worry about them creating problems in the backline." Moreau let out a slow breath, glancing toward the battlefield ahead.

Chapter 37 - 37:

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