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“Ravage, report.”

The Humvee lurched forward. Behind them, the highway burned. Ahead, only more highway. And somewhere in between, a boy who had raised his hands like he was asking a question no one would answer.

“Everyone’s armed until they’re not,” Lenihan muttered. But he didn’t give the order to fire. Instead, he keyed the mic again. “Hitman, recommend we roll past. No threat.”

The figure stopped. Raised both hands. Then lowered them. Then raised them again—like a bird trying to decide if flight was worth the risk.

“You see that?” whispered Corporal Reade, his face smeared with camouflage cream and exhaustion.

Lenihan’s jaw tightened. The kid had started walking toward them now—not running, not charging. Just walking, like a ghost trying to remember what it felt like to be alive.

Reade sank back into his seat. “That’s it? We’re not even going to talk about it?”

Lenihan squinted through the thermal scope. The highway ahead was a graveyard of burnt-out civilian cars—a convoy hit two days ago. But something was moving. A single figure, shuffling between the wrecks.

The Echo of an Empty Highway

The battalion’s call-sign crackled back: “Ravage, this is Hitman. Verify. No friendlies north of the river.”