The wind howled across the Sierra de Javalambre, carrying the faint smell of blood.
In a bunker outside Teruel, Moreau leaned over a map with trembling fingers, his shoulder still heavily bandaged.
His eyes, however, were sharp.
Unyielding.
Across from him stood Captain Renaud, with sweat on his forehead.
"They've gone dark in Sector 3," Renaud said. "No contact since midnight."
"Send another courier," Moreau murmured.
"We've sent three. None returned."
Moreau looked up. "Then they're gone."
Renaud swallowed. "Guderian's coming. And this time, it's not a skirmish."
Moreau tapped the map. "Then we hold. The line's drawn. This is where we stand."
Far to the north, Guderian stood under the glow of a light, examining aerial recon photographs.
"To Teruel in three days. Nothing fancy. Just thunder."
Colonel Ravalli of the Italian mechanized division shifted uncomfortably.
"And if they hold?"
