The village was nearly dead.
It sat tucked between forgotten hills and sun-bleached roads, the kind of place war never remembered and peace never improved.
Roofs sagged.
Shutters hung loose.
A broken bell tower leaned like an old drunk watching the sky for an answer.
The wind carried dust, and with it, the noise of something coming.
Moreau stepped out of the jeep and stretched his back.
His coat snapped in the wind, his face unreadable.
Beside him, Renaud chewed the inside of his cheek, eyes scanning the empty square.
"This where it happens?" Renaud asked.
Moreau didn't answer.
He was looking at the fountain in the middle of the square dry, cracked, a rusted plaque that used to say something about freedom.
He pulled out a cigarette.
Lit it.
Watched the smoke drift like a signal.
"We wait," he said.
And they did.
The first to arrive came at sunrise.
A dust trail announced him before the battered truck turned the bend.
