PREVIEW

... igues, no insignia, no name tag.

Just a boy, maybe twenty, maybe less.

Gloved hands.

Pale neck.

A single, clean bullet wound through the chest.

Behind him, Rousseau's boots crunched through the frost, clipboard under one arm, a cigarette bent between his lips.

He paused, surveyed the body, then exhaled slow.

"That makes seventy-two confirmed enemy corpses," he muttered. "Plenty more in the brush. Some of 'em crawled off before dying."

< ...

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