The ground was still damp from the early morning dew, and Élodie's hands trembled as she wiped the cold sweat from her brow. The sense of imminent danger had not passed. If anything, it had only deepened.
They had evaded the patrol—this time—but the Gestapo were relentless. It would only be a matter of time before they returned. She couldn't shake the image of their boots, stomping through the underbrush, as if they owned the land.
"Stay sharp," Henri muttered, his voice barely a whisper. His eyes were locked on the path ahead, scanning for any sign of movement. Luc, too, seemed consumed with vigilance, his usual stoic expression clouded with an intensity she hadn't seen before. The silence between them was thick, heavy with everything they hadn't said, all the emotions that couldn't be voiced under such pressure.
The convoy was drawing nearer. Élodie's pulse raced, the sound of the approaching trucks becoming louder with each passing moment. They had to make their move—quickly.
Henri gestured for them to advance, signaling in a quiet flurry of hand gestures that would have seemed insignificant to any onlooker, but to them, it was a language known only to those who had survived these kinds of operations. Without a word, they began to crawl toward the clearing ahead, their bodies low to the ground, moving like shadows.
Élodie couldn't help but glance at Luc as they neared the clearing. He had been distant, more so than usual. His quiet gaze met hers for just a second, but there was no warmth in his eyes, only determination and something else—a struggle, perhaps. She swallowed, unsure how to bridge the gap that had grown between them since the night they had talked in the cave.
The convoy's lead truck finally appeared around the bend of the road, its tires kicking up dust, the sun glinting off its metallic body. Élodie could see the soldiers perched in the back of the truck, rifles slung lazily over their shoulders, unaware of the danger closing in on them.
They had to move now.
Henri gave a low, urgent signal, and the group surged forward, gliding across the uneven terrain with practiced ease. They reached the edge of the road just as the convoy passed by, mere feet between them and the trucks.
Élodie's heart was in her throat. She couldn't help but look at Luc again, but this time, their gazes locked for a heartbeat longer. The world around them blurred—time seemed to slow. She couldn't explain it, but in that moment, it was as though everything had changed between them. Whatever had been left unsaid before now surged between them like a tidal wave.
Then the moment was gone. Henri motioned them forward, pulling Élodie from her thoughts. They had to stay on track—there would be time for everything else later.
The convoy was moving swiftly now, as though the soldiers feared being caught, their tires grinding against the gravel as they drove out of sight. Henri and the others darted across the road to a small cluster of trees just on the other side. They had to stay out of sight long enough for the convoy to clear the area. There would be no room for mistakes.
Élodie barely dared to breathe. Her instincts screamed at her to keep moving, to stay ahead of whatever dangers lurked behind them. She could feel the pull of her past—the grief, the loss—and the weight of the choices she had made. But in that moment, with the convoy now a distant rumble, it was the future that loomed. The possibility of escape, of freedom, of a new life—if they could just survive this next step.
A sharp crack of a twig cut through the air, and Élodie froze, her heart lurching in her chest. It was not the convoy. It was not even a patrol.
Luc's hand was suddenly on her arm, pulling her down, his voice a harsh whisper in her ear. "Get down!"
A soldier—a lone Gestapo patrolman—was emerging from the trees. His rifle was held tight in his hands, scanning the forest for movement. They had been spotted, and there was nowhere to hide.
The world seemed to spin, the edges of her vision narrowing, as Élodie's pulse hammered in her ears. In an instant, the calm of the morning was shattered. The soldier's eyes flickered over them as they crouched low, trying to remain unseen. He was close—too close.
Henri motioned to the others, his hand steady despite the situation. "Stay quiet," he breathed. "Hold your position."
Élodie's breath was shallow, her body frozen, as the soldier's gaze swept past her hiding spot. Time stretched endlessly. She felt as though she could hear her heartbeat echoing in her head.
And then, a voice.
"Damn it! Over here!"
The soldier's shout rang out like a gunshot in the quiet woods. A second patrol had arrived from the opposite side, and Élodie knew in that moment that they had no choice but to move—or die.
Before she could react, Luc pulled her to her feet, his grip like iron. He didn't wait for her to say anything. Without a word, he dragged her toward the thick underbrush, the others already moving in a coordinated rush behind them.
The forest seemed to come alive with the noise of pursuit. Branches cracked underfoot, and the pounding of boots grew louder as the soldiers closed in. Henri's voice broke through the chaos, sharp and clear: "This way!"
They cut through the trees, each step taking them deeper into the woods, further from safety, but closer to the edge of something far more dangerous. The convoy was their chance—but now, it was no longer just a matter of reaching it. It was a fight for survival.
Behind them, the sound of gunfire shattered the stillness. Someone had been caught.
And Élodie knew—this mission was no longer just about getting the convoy to safety.
It was about them all getting out alive.