Illegal Arms Trade, Human Smuggling, Organ Trafficking.

The road back to the base was silent.

Not in peace but in rage, in grief, in exhaustion.

Moreau rode in the Renault R35's open hatch, his uniform soaked in dried blood some his own, most not.

His rifle rested across his lap, his hands gripping it so tightly his knuckles had turned white.

Behind him, his men marched like ghosts.

Thirty kilometers of death, thirty kilometers of memories they wished they could erase.

The prisoners, bound and beaten, were forced to march between their ranks, constantly under watch.

More than once, Moreau saw his men spit at them, curse them under their breath.

He didn't stop them.

He didn't feel like stopping them.

Renaud, walking beside the tank, exhaled heavily, wiping the sweat and blood from his face.

"We lost six men today." His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Moreau didn't respond.

"Two more are barely holding on. Medic says one of them is done for."