Somewhere in the hills outside Vic, Catalonia
The old sheep barn stank of manure and damp hay, but it was the only shelter left that wouldn't sell them out.
Three men crouched in the shadows, rifles across their knees, eyes darting at every creak of the warped timber walls.
A single lantern burned low, throwing jittery shadows up the beams.
"Tell me again," muttered Raúl, wiping sweat from his brow, though the night was cool.
"Those weren't old Civil Guard with Mausers. Those rifles; modern, detachable magazines, both semi and automatic fire?"
No one answered. From the far corner, Tomàs, with a bandage dark around his thigh, let out a nervous laugh that died halfway.
