Mariam grabbed her rifle. “Nobody fires unless I give the word.”
“Double the watch,” she said. “Lencho, Nuru—check the south approach. Desta, you’re with me.”
The kadakal stood at the intersection of three dry riverbeds. From here, you could see into two countries and one contested strip of land that belonged to no map. The grass around it had been trampled recently. Mariam knelt. Boot prints. Not military—thin-soled, the kind villagers wore. But also a single heavy tread, maybe a boot with a repaired heel. kampi kadakal
Mariam felt the cold settle deeper into her chest. This was new. The Kadakal Men never left signs. They struck, vanished, and the wind erased their tracks. Leaving a bullet was a message. Or a taunt.
Mariam stepped back. For the first time in fifteen years of service, she felt not fear, but awe. Kampi Kadakal wasn’t a battle zone anymore. Mariam grabbed her rifle
Then: “…Understood, Sergeant. Hold and observe.”
“Did they cross?”
On the stretcher: a body. A man, middle-aged, hands bound with green cord. Around his neck, a wooden tag with three lines burned into it. No identification. No weapon.