A tactical group of soldiers, some in ghillie suits, gather around two kneeling leaders beside military vehicles in a dark, mountainous landscape under a dramatic twilight sky.

“Count six,” Sarah whispered. Her voice was barely a breath. “Lead vehicle has a mounted weapon. Looks like a scavenged fifty.” Harlan nodded once. The plan was already set. The Free Born did not fight fair. Fair was a luxury of people who still believed in the old rules. They fought to win and to leave a message that would travel farther than any radio still functioning in the wasteland. He touched the small radio at his collar — low-power, frequency-hopping, good for only a few miles in these mountains. “All stations. Execute on my mark. No survivors who look like leaders. Drivers and loaders can run if they throw down. Everyone else is fair game.” A series of soft clicks answered him. Positions were set. The Free Born owned every high piece of ground for three miles in either direction. The convoy was already inside the wire and did not know it. Harlan waited until the lead vehicle passed the old stone culvert that marked the kill zone. Then he keyed the radio once more. “Mark.” The first suppressed shot came from farther up the ridge, a heavy thump that dropped the gunner on the mounted fifty before the man even knew he was dead. Sarah’s rifle spoke next, the sound no louder than a polite cough. The driver of the second pickup slumped over the wheel. The convoy lurched to a confused halt. Men piled out, shouting, raising weapons that glittered under the night-vision glow. That was when the rest of the Free Born opened up. Rifle fire, carefully aimed and deliberate, cut Ver mais