The wind tore across the outpost.
It screamed like it wanted something vengeance, maybe.
Blood.
Maybe just truth.
No one knew anymore.
Moreau stood under the gray sky, his coat unbuttoned, his fingers bare despite the cold.
The ten letters were gone, hand-delivered by trusted couriers under false identities and forged clearances.
Ten names.
Ten coordinates.
No explanation.
Only a call.
He didn't need to write much.
Each man would understand.
Some had waited for this longer than he had.
The first letter found its way into the scarred hands of Colonel Alexandre "Le Boucher" Delacroix, retired, living on a decaying vineyard outside Bordeaux.
He had once been the hammer of the Legion Etrangère, known for ending three rebellions in Africa without waiting for Paris to give permission.
His men called him "The Butcher," not for cruelty, but because his operations were swift, surgical, and soaked in blood.
When the courier arrived, Delacroix was splitting logs shirtless.
