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CHAPTER 18




The truck slowed to a stop. Felix propped himself up on his hands and knees, listening as it idled. When there wasn’t any movement after a few seconds, he held the detached optic from his carbine over the edge of the truck bed. The video played on a small screen on his visor.

It was pitch black, but the night-vision optics and false-color filters made it look nearly like he was in daylight. The truck had stopped on the outskirts of the city. Shanties and other crude huts were separated by trash-strewn dirt roads. Flashes of mortar and artillery rounds deeper in the city marked the front lines . . . not too far away. Just how the insurgents had managed an assault so deep into Hegemony territory was a concern, but not one he had to solve.

Felix just wanted to get to some friendly faces without getting shot in the process.

He spotted skyscrapers further away and knew he’d arrived at the right city. Just how he was going to reach the Hegemony without getting shot in the back by the Flags or in the face by the Hegemony was a problem he hadn’t solved yet, but he’d been making it up as he went along and was still alive.

So far.

The driver’s door opened. Felix lowered the optic and waited, his entire body taut. The driver let out a puff of smoke that billowed around his face as he reached into the truck bed. Felix snatched him by the wrist.

The cigarette fell from his mouth.

“Hey, how ya doing?”

Felix yanked the driver to one side and hooked a punch into his chin that knocked the man out cold. He kept his grip on him as he went limp and pulled him into the truck bed. Felix gave him a pat on the cheek and patted him down. He plucked a mostly empty pack of cigarettes from a breast pocket and shoved them into his pouch.

The Flanker hopped out and ran towards the sound of gunfire.


Another shot from a high-caliber rifle rang out through the city. Felix slid his back against a tin-walled shack and inched the optics on his carbine around the edge. He hadn’t encountered many civilians as he snuck through the outskirts. He suspected most had opted to go on a very convenient lunar eclipse “pilgrimage” to avoid the fighting.

There’d been more feral dogs on the muddy streets than people, and with his night vision and thermal optics powered up, avoiding them had been easy in the dark.

A flash burst from the top of a two-story high tower connected to a brick building. He wasn’t sure if the building was some sort of place of worship, but it had avoided any obvious signs of taking damage in the battle raging through the city and it didn’t have trash piled against it.

“Hey . . . there’s a vantage point,” Felix said to himself. “If he’s shooting at something, bet I can see what it is and figure out how to get there.”

A door near the tower was open, typical for buildings without air conditioning in places with high humidity. A shadow moved across a heat source near the door.

Felix unsnapped the safety catch on his bayonet and drew the matte-black blade. He reversed the grip and beat his fist against his chest twice.

“All Father . . . be with me.” Felix whirled, then rushed the open door. A man squatted next to a hot plate, a pot of boiling water on it. He had his back to the opening and twisted around just in time to see Felix’s knife plunge at him.

The blade buried to the hilt where the shoulder met his neck. Felix pushed him onto the floor and tugged the knife out. Arterial spray splattered against the wall, black in his faux-color vision.

The dying man kicked out and knocked the boiling pot over. It clattered over worn carpet and down a hallway.

“Oi, si pau?” There was a rustle from a darkened doorway. Felix hopped over twitching legs and put his back as close to the wall next to the doorway as he could. An insurgent with a red handkerchief around his neck stepped into the small foyer and froze when he saw his dead comrade.

Felix swung the still-bloody knife into the man’s chest just below the sternum. The tip pierced his diaphragm and stuck there, keeping the insurgent from crying out for help or breathing at all. Felix felt the man’s body quiver for a moment before he collapsed to the floor. Felix kept a solid hold on the handle and the dying man’s weight pulled it free from the body.

The Flanker waited, listening for anyone else that might be nearby.

The sniper rifle atop the tower boomed again.

He turned a corner and found a curved stairwell leading up. He took the steps two at a time, hoping that the constant beating the sniper’s ears had taken from firing his weapon, and that he had a security element downstairs, would keep him from noticing Felix’s approach.

The rifle fired, and dust shook from the old brick and mortar of the tower. Felix saw a pair of sandals sticking out over the top of the stairwell. He raised his bayonet and found the sniper, a woman, kneeling against the rifle, the muzzle jutting over a low wall of the minaret.

She had long dark hair in a braid over one shoulder and did a double take as Felix charged into the space. Felix crashed into her, pinning her against the wall, and stabbed at her. She brought her arms up and deflected the strike. The edge sliced across her cheek and she shrieked in pain.

The blade bounced off the floor and flew out of Felix’s hand. He pinned her down, his knife arm squished between them. Her face was so close that her breath fogged his visor.

She opened her mouth to scream. Felix reared back and slammed the metal edge of his helmet into her nose. The back of her head bounced off the floor and her eyes rolled back.

Felix snatched up his bayonet and thrust it into the sniper’s neck. The tip burst out of the other side just below her chin. He fell back on his haunches, the knife left in place.

“Ah! I didn’t—didn’t know!” He clamped his jaw shut. The sniper let out a wet gurgle and went limp. “Didn’t know you were a girl. Shit.”

The sniper rifle was on an improvised table, the barrel angled up on a tripod. The wooden stock had several rows of kill tallies carved into it.

Felix’s instinctual guilt at killing a woman faded away as he did a quick count. He grabbed the body by the ankle and pulled it away from the table. He slid the visor to the top of his helmet and nestled the stock against his shoulder. The optics package on top was fairly modern, with enough zoom and image enhancement to be accurate out to at least two kilometers.

He fiddled with the controls until the picture stabilized. A Hegemony Flanker took cover behind a wall across a wide and open highway. Felix shook his head slightly in disapproval. Whoever that was must’ve known there was a sniper operating in the area. Knowing where the sightlines were to avoid exposure should’ve been communicated to everyone by now.

“Amateurs. You trying to get killed?” he muttered. Felix scanned the optics back and spotted a close grip of insurgents massing just across the highway. None had the outline of a Flanker or Cataphract, and the faint “X” of crossed bandoliers convinced him they were the enemy.

He hit a range-finder button and lined up the optics. He squeezed the trigger and the rifle slammed into his shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance.

“Son of a bitch.” He rubbed a now sore shoulder and reset. The group of insurgents was taking fire from the Hegemony soldiers, a brand-new hole in a wall above their heads. Felix aimed again.

He watched the air curve behind the round as it passed through one insurgent’s shoulder and hit another in the back. One of them spun around, then lifted a radio to his mouth.

A radio on the dead sniper’s chest warbled. The speaker’s voice was high-pitched and past the edge of panic.

“There’s the officer.” Felix adjusted his aim to the new target and shot again.

The bullet hit the insurgent with the radio in the thigh, blasting out a chunk of flesh. The man went down, his scream carrying through the radio for a few seconds. The rest of the insurgents rushed from cover toward the Hegemony lines. Felix inched the muzzle to one side and lined the crosshairs up on a man with a rocket-propelled grenade held in his arms. He tapped the range finder to adjust and aimed for center mass.

The sniper rifle bucked hard and when Felix reacquired the target, the man was in a fetal position, a dark patch of blood growing from his lower back. The launcher was on the ground rolling away from him.

A bullet struck the tower wall. Pulverized mortar and rock spat up in the optics. Felix ducked as more shots snapped through the air and thwacked against the tower.

“That how they always handle friendly fire?” He kicked the sniper rifle away from him and fired a single round into the optics mounted on top of the weapon. It shattered, stinging his hands and arms with fragments. The split battery sparked and fizzled as he popped the magazine out and removed one of the last bullets. He jammed it sideways into the open breech and kicked the bolt hard, shearing off the bullet and fouling the weapon for the next insurgent that found it.

Felix hurried down the stairs.


“Frag out!” Mason chucked a grenade over a high wall and ducked.

Noah scrunched against the blown-out wall he trusted his life to as a sudden blast rustled his entire body. The headache that adrenaline had tamped down returned, pounding against his temples and making his teeth ache.

He popped his head and shoulders over the craggy top of what remained of a business and spotted two insurgents stumbling out of the dust cloud kicked up by the explosion. A three-round burst hit one man in the back. He pitched forward, one leg scraping against the dirt. The next insurgent went down to a burst that blew out his throat and one side of his head.

Noah dropped again and scurried closer to Mason, who worked his open jaw from side to side.

“Got ’em.” Noah tapped his brother on the shoulder.

“What?” Mason tapped the side of his helmet with the heel of his hand.

“I got—never mind.” Noah checked the squad net and no one else was in contact. He flashed his round count and water level to Sergeant Corre and got a read receipt. More data feeds trickled in; the enemy seemed to have ended their current assault and pulled back to regroup. Not the first time that had happened in the last few hours.

“Holy shit, Noah,” Mason said. “Did you do that?”

A pic of a dead insurgent lying on his side flashed in the corner of Noah’s visor. The man had his hands stuffed between his legs, a deep red blotch covered his arms and crotch.

“Do what? No, I just got two more at our ten o’clock . . . damn.” Noah swallowed hard.

“You shot him in the dick,” Mason said. “I know they’re trying to kill us and everything but . . . that’s just cold for a kid who’s on his first day in the shit.”

“I didn’t—” Noah rolled his eyes. “He’s not even in my sector of fire! You must’ve shot him in the dick.”

“Uh-uh, he’s like fifty yards away and I was using my last frag. No way my grenade blew his dick off from that far away. ’Least he bled out quick . . . sure as hell knew what happened to him while he was dying. Remind me not to piss you off anymore.”

“It wasn’t me! What . . . what does it even matter? Why aren’t we more concerned about that rocket launcher that’s out there in the street? One of them gets it and this nice wall’s about as useful as toilet paper the next time they attack.” Noah tapped his chest harness. “You got a spare mag? I’m getting low.”

“I’m on my last one.” Mason flicked his carbine up on its side. “We’ll cycle back for resupply soon. . . . Let me ping Rochelle and see if they’ve got any mags. They don’t want us running out while we’re holding this spot. Watch your sector.”

“I hope we get ammo before they come back.” Noah slid his back against the wall towards the broken edge. “I gotta use harsh language . . . don’t think they’ll even understand me. Maybe just yell ‘bang’ or something.”

Noah spun on the balls of his feet and did a combat peek around the edge of the wall.

Another Flanker helmet was looking right at him.

Noah fell back in shock, his arms extending out with his carbine as he let loose a flood of consonants.

“Don’t fucking shoot me! Friendly! Friendly!” came from the other side of the wall. Mason hurried over, carbine at his shoulder. Noah fell on his back, weapon pointed between his knees at the wall.

A pair of dirty hands popped over the edge.

“Friendly!” Felix shouted again.

“P-prove it!” Mason lifted his carbine higher, ready to lean over the wall and end the new arrival.

“Is ‘God damn it don’t shoot me’ not enough? I’ve got my carbine slung over my back, but the Flags are still out there. Can I come over to your side of that nice and thick-looking wall without any new holes in me? I’ve had a shitty day as it is,” Felix said.

Mason and Noah glanced at each other and shrugged at the same time.

“Fine, come around, keep your hands up,” Mason said.

Noah shimmied backwards, carbine still pointed between his knees at the wall.

Felix kept his hands high and spun around the edge of the wall. He leaned against it and sank down. He lowered his hands to shoulder height, his chest heaving.

“Name. Unit. Sing the first half of the anthem.” Mason kept his weapon trained on him.

“PFC Felix, one each. Thirty-seventh Syddan Dragoons, second battalion, Bastard Company. Ugh . . .” He cleared his throat. “He-gem-ony my heart. Hear unto me they voice . . . raise to the highest our—”

“Stop, stop, you can’t sing worth a shit.” Mason lowered his weapon. “Just ‘Felix’? They don’t have last names on wherever?”

Felix let one hand drop to his side and slid his visor up and wiped grime out from the side of his eyes.

“Last names are for paperwork. It’s Ibensen if you care that much. I’m just Felix to everyone. You guys sound funny. Where you from?”

“Bretton.” Noah shifted to one knee. “What were you doing out there with the Flags?”

“My convoy got ambushed way . . .” Felix waved a hand to one side, “way the hell over there. Route 14 near Shimshar Township. I’ve been on the run ever since. This city’s supposed to be secure. What happened?”

“Buddy, we just got here.” Mason activated his forearm screen and wagged a finger at Noah. “Keep him talking. Let me send this up.”

“We made planetfall earlier today. Or yesterday. Or the day before—it’s been a blur,” Noah said. “Flags launched an attack with the lunar eclipse, and we’ve been holding on by our fingernails since we got here. Lots of casualties.”

“You’re all that green? Explains why one of you doesn’t know how to take cover when there was a sniper. I took out the nest for you, you’re welcome, hit a couple Flags with the rifle while I was at it.” Felix half reached back for his carbine. “You mind? She’s diggin’ in my back.”

“Yeah, fine,” Noah said. “Wait, you were hitting them from that tower? I think you shot one of ’em in the dick.”

Felix blinked hard.

“I did what?” he asked.

Noah found Felix’s helm on the near-IR net and sent him a picture of the dead insurgent with the fatal groin wound.

“Oh shit . . . no.” Felix covered his mouth. “I was aiming center mass on his back and the bullet must’ve dropped with the distance from where I was shooting. I thought I hit him where we have our main battery packs.” He reached back and touched his lower back.

“Mason, this guy’s the dick shooter. Wasn’t me,” Noah said.

“Look, I wasn’t aiming for his dick. Just sort of happened. And I killed him before he could frag the both of you. You’re welcome.” Felix laid his carbine on his lap. “Not to impose, but you got any food?”

“Huh? Yeah, I got something,” Noah reached into his pouch and pulled out a packet of tong jerky and held it out to Felix.

Felix looked at the offering, his lips twitching. He picked up a small square and lifted it slightly in thanks and salute.

“Maybe I am in hell and that Antares just didn’t think I was worth saving.” He looked away.

“Okay,” Mason slapped his thigh, “Sarge wants us to bring him back to the platoon rally point for debrief. First squad’s coming to relieve us in a second. Wow, you really put a sniper shot through that insurgent’s asshole to pee hole? Glad you’re on our side.”

“I wasn’t trying to blow his dick off. Like I said . . . just sort of happened.” Felix shrugged. “Hold on, I’m in Tabuk, right?”

“Uh . . . probably?” Mason frowned. “You’re with friendlies. That’s what matters, right?”

“For sure and no one’s shot me in the dick. Yet. Not everyone’s got that luxury.” Felix got to his feet as more Flankers approached.


Corre took steady steps down a concrete staircase. Cataphract suits massed several hundred pounds, and battle-damaged structures had a bad habit of failing under the concentrated weight. He entered a basement without incident and found Mason and Noah standing on either side of a pale-skinned, bald Flanker with a reddish beard sitting in front of Sergeant First Class Malo. The stranger munched on a steaming cup of instant noodles, mumbling to the platoon sergeant.

Boyle stood against the wall, his breastplate and helm open.

The company communications soldier, Servat, had his backpack off and was busy attaching wires from fresh holes in the ceiling to the pack.

“There’s a hose in the far corner,” Boyle said. “Fresh-ish water, but the pressure ain’t gonna last.”

“Thank Saint Robin.” Corre went to a spigot with a ratty hose next to it and dismounted from his Cataphract suit.

The bald Flanker scrunched his nose and looked at Corre as he brushed brown lumps off his bodysuit and into an uncovered drain on the floor.

“It’s not my shit.” Corre screwed the hose on and washed himself off.

“Then whose shit . . . is it?” Felix asked. He rolled noodles around his mouth and kept eating.

Corre grumbled, as the rank smell of the water out of the hose wasn’t going to do much to improve the aroma in his suit.

“Mason and Noah found this stray out in the gray zone,” Malo said. “Survivor of a unit that got ambushed a ways from here. He’s been on the ground for how long? A year?”

“Fifteen months,” Felix said. “Are you guys supposed to be our relief? We should’ve been home for Christmas.”

“It’s been a bit of catch-as-catch-can since we landed,” Malo said. “Servat, you got the LT yet?”

“Negative.” Servat held a speaker from a headset against an ear. “Nothing on the local nets either. My ciphers are still pinging green off the re-trans servers. I don’t know why we’re not getting anything.”

“Where’s Lieutenant Govrien?” Corre asked. “Thought he’d be back from whatever the colonel wanted him for by now. They pinning captain on him or something?”

“Still with Jematé from last word we got.” Malo shrugged. “Felix here’s pretty resourceful. Managed to sneak through enemy lines and get right in Noah’s face.”

“He shot one of them in the dick.” Mason nodded emphatically.

Corre lowered the hose as his brows raised.

“Not on purpose.” Felix lowered his noodle cup. “What is it with you Bretton guys and dicks? Are you like, obsessed with them or something? Everyone that’s come in the room, you’ve pointed at me and told them I’m a dick shooter. There’s more to me than that, just so you know.”

“Hold on, why did you shoot someone in the dick?” Corre asked.

“Damn it!” Felix dropped his plastic spoon into the cup. “I was on a sniper rifle I wasn’t familiar with and I had the choice to shoot a Flag with it—and blow his dick off in the process by complete accident—or let him blow way more off Mason and Noah than just their dicks. Okay? How about a thank you? Maybe a unit coin if you Brettons do that. Unless there’s a dick on it. I don’t want to have to explain why I’m walking around with a dick coin like those weirdos from Agrios Sector units have on them for luck.”

“I think we’re done discussing that.” Malo gave Mason the look that only senior non-commissioned officers can to the Flanker to make his point. Mason shrank back slightly. “To be a bit more useful, Felix here saw the Flags moving battalions’ worth of soldiers east of the city. I think we’ve only seen the beginning of the attacks. Problem is we can’t get anyone at battalion on the horn to pass up the intel and I don’t even know where to send a runner.”

“Heh, what’re we supposed to do without battalion telling us when we can shit?” Corre sprayed a brown lump into the drain.

“Got something.” Servat pumped a fist. “It’s on the breakthrough channel . . . coming in off satellites and every repeater I can tap into . . . Weird. Let me pass it through.”

A holo emitter on his backpack cast a light through a cover. Servat flipped a bit of fabric up and a news broadcast desk with two pristine anchors appeared in the middle of the basement. Between them was a Dahrien insurgent, red sashes crossed over his chest and a pair of Hegemony sidearms on either hip. The man had the thousand-yard stare of a combat veteran and a face pockmarked by old wounds.

“—and I’m Chad Storm,” the male anchor said. Vanessa Blanco, sitting on the other side of the insurgent, beamed a smile to the camera.

“In breaking news,” Chad tapped a small pile of papers in his hands against the desk and an image of the destroyed Highest appeared in front of him, “the Hegemony has destroyed—is destroyed—loyalty programming violation number eight-eight-one. Filler loop activated.”

“What is this?” Malo took a step towards the holo. He looked back at Felix, who shrugged. “This some sort of sick joke?”

“Ciphers read green, platoon sergeant,” Servat said.

“That’s right Chad,” Vanessa extended her chest out, revealing more cleavage, “the complete and total erasure of the Hegemony has been announced by Marshal Telemachus, long may he reign. All military forces are hereby ordered to fall back to the nearest void port for loyalty oaths and reassignment to-to-to-to-to . . .” Her face froze but her voice repeated the same word over and over again until the insurgent pulled out a pistol and shot her in the temple.

Vanessa Blanco’s cranium exploded into plastic and burning hair. Her face hinged forward, revealing animatronics within.

“That’s great stuff,” Chad Storm continued. “Now for sports.”

Another bullet revealed the other anchor was just as robotic as the first.

The insurgent set his pistol on the desk and stared into the camera.

“Occupiers,” he said, his accent thick, “your Hegemony is dead. I am General Bonifacio. We have taken control of the territory around Malakal City and most of the buildings around your ‘Central.’ No help will come from there. There is no more reason for you to fight. You will unconditionally surrender to the nearest Rightly Guided Forces of the Red Flag immediately. Those of you who have massacred my people will receive . . . justice. Those of you who are innocent will be spared and put to work repairing the cities and countryside that your occupation has destroyed. You will be our prisoners until such time as we see fit to release you. This is your only chance to survive. Any Hegemony soldier or civilian not in our custody by nightfall Malakal time will be killed on sight. Surrender. Now. There is no Hegemony anymore. No one is coming to save you, but I will show mercy.”

Bonifacio leaned to one side and swiped his fingertips across his throat.

The broadcast ended.

The basement was deadly silent for several heartbeats.

“That’s . . . got to be fake,” Noah stammered. “The Hegemony can’t just end. This can’t happen.”

“It’s not AI-generated.” Servat looked up from his forearm screen. “There’d be attribution coding in the file headers. I’m telling you it’s real. All of it.”

“We don’t want to surrender.” Felix jumped to his feet, his face going pale. “Not to those animals. You all just got here but you don’t know what they’ll do to us.” He rubbed the top of his head where the insurgents normally scalped prisoners.

“They’ll string us up and slice us across the stomach,” Corre said. “I’ve seen it.”

Mason leaned forward suddenly and vomited.

“Everyone just . . . stay fucking calm!” Malo shouted. “No one fucking panic! I need to—shit. every squad leader is trying to break through. Hold on.” He touched his earbud.

“Servat, get someone else on the radio,” Boyle said. “Anyone. There’s got to be an explanation for this. Marshal Telemachus is a hero of the Hegemony. I fought for him on Colima, he wouldn’t do something like this . . . he wouldn’t.”

Corre turned the water pressure higher on his hose and washed out the last of his suit.

“Battalion!” Servat tapped a code into his forearm screen. “Major Perrin’s on the command override channel.”

Corre’s earbud clicked as the holo changed to a drone view of a burnt-out building, smoke and dust still curling around the wreckage.

“Men of Bretton,” Perrin said through Corre’s earbud. The rest of the soldiers in the basement except for Felix cocked their heads slightly to listen. “The transmission we just received is valid. The last word I received from Colonel Jematé was from the building you see on the screen. It was attacked and destroyed. There has been no word from the colonel or anyone else that was with him. I must assume they have been killed in action. May the Saint receive their souls,” Perrin’s voice cracked and he cleared his throat, “—receive their souls and comfort them as ones worthy of rest. I am assuming command of the battalion.

“There is cause for hope. Colonel Lambert of the Territorial Logistics Corps sent news of the Highest’s destruction and the death of the Most High council to our headquarters less than an hour ago. He has a plan . . . one with a slim chance of success—to evacuate out battalion off of Dahrien and get us back home aboard the Izmir. I’ve used the lead time to plan our route from here to a small void port at Fort Triumph.”

The holo changed to a map; an orange highlighted route from the city to a “V” within a circle nestled in a valley flashed on and off.

“We must secure the void port for the Izmir and the fuel stores there. Then we will get the hell off this planet,” Perrin said. “While the rest of friendly forces in the city are . . . processing this information, we must act. We will take advantage of the confusion and march toward Fort Triumph immediately. Take only food, ammunition and power packs. All other equipment is forfeit. Colonel Jematé’s last command to me was to get us home, and I will obey that order as a man of Bretton, an officer in the service of hearth and home and as a son of the Hegemony . . . what the Hegemony once was.

“Fall back from your current positions and into the march order transmitted time now,” Perrin said.

There was a ding inside Corre’s armor as a file was delivered.

“We step off for the Izmir in ten minutes,” the major said. “I do not wish to leave anyone behind, but this is a day full of regrets. Perrin, out.”

Corre’s earbud clicked off.

“Hello?” Felix raised a hand.

“You heard the major,” Malo said. “Everyone grab enough ammo and batteries for the march. No, take all the packs out of here and we’ll pass it out on the move. Move your asses!”

“Hello!” Felix stood and waved his hand over his head.

Corre opened his radio and spoke with Sergeant Rochelle quickly, then climbed into his moist and musty Cataphract armor.

“What do we do with him, Sarge?” Mason spat out the last of what he’d thrown up to the floor and canted his head at Felix.

“Take him with us if he wants to go,” Corre said. “We’ll have room on the Izmir.”

“Hey, dick lovers!” Felix shouted. This got the room’s attention. “I didn’t catch all of that because I’m not on your net.” He pointed a finger at his earbud. “But if you’re trying to get to the void port at Triumph you do not want to take that route through the countryside. Whole place is Flag country. Has been for months. You’ll get ambushed every time you turn a corner and they’ve got the road mined seven ways from Sunday.”

“None of that was on the map,” Malo said as he picked up a satchel full of batteries.

“Do you want to believe a map or the guy whose unit fought and lost that whole sector? You think I’m making this up?” Felix tossed his hands in the air.

“I can get the major on the net.” Servat held up a microphone handset.

“No time.” Malo handed a bandolier of grenades to Felix. “I don’t want the good idea fairy on the net while we’ve got a viable purpose and a mission. Temporarily viable. Corre, take the new guy straight to Perrin. The route out of the city’s still clear and we won’t get to the route he says is bad for hours. The major can put a decent plan together this fast, he can put another one together too.”

“Roger. Moving.” Corre buttoned up his Cataphract armor. “Second squad, fall in on me. We need to move fast.”





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