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Not quiet but dead.
Heat shimmered off the dirt roads.
The vines were dry.
The olive trees still there.
A few French scouts thought the Nationalists had withdrawn, maybe even fractured.
They hadn’t seen movement for sixteen hours.
Not even patrols.
But Moreau didn’t believe in stillness.
Not from Guderian.
He stood beside an overturned cart, binoculars tight to his face, sweat rolling down his back.
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