Three armed.
Two more outside.
Unknown number beyond that.
No cover.
No exit.
No—
A rifle presses into my shoulder.
“Move!”
Yeah.
Not a suggestion.
I raise my hands slowly.
Controlled.
Compliant.
For now.
I step out of the van.
Feet hitting dirt.
Air thick with smoke and heat.
Vehicles ahead are already disabled.
Drivers down.
Not moving.
I don’t look too long.
Can’t afford to.
Survivors are being pulled out.
Separated.
Watched.
This is organized.
Too organized.
“Doctor,” one of the men says, his accent thick, his tone sharp. “You come.”
Not a question.
I don’t argue.
