Chapter 577: The Calculus of Morality
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.
"They’re not local. That’s the point. You think the King’s men are capable of ambushing our ambushes? They stripped the police stations, you remember? Our neighbors, the same men who used to shake us down for bribes, tore off their badges and ran for the coast the moment our comrades in Barcelona started stringing up aristocrats. There’s no Guardia left to organize squads like this."
Martí, the eldest of them, leaned back against the wall. His breath whistled through a gap in his teeth.
"I’ve heard rumors of men like these operating beyond the Alps, beyond the Carpathians the last few years."
He sat up, gaze moving across his two comrades as if telling ghost stories by the hearth.
"They wear no uniforms, blend in with locals, wield advanced weapons, and have no regard for the rules of war. These aren’t dogs of Madrid. They’re foreign wolves disguised as men."