The ridge erupted with muzzle flashes—sharp, bright bursts against the sun-baked stone. A chorus of rifle cracks rolled down the hillside a half-second later. A bunch of people in red gear fired at the patrol group. The group took cover behind the jeep.
Case leaned out just far enough to sight down his rifle. He fired in controlled bursts—fast, accurate, and steady—laying down suppressing fire that forced the Legionnaires to duck. It wasn't blind spray; every round had purpose. Just like training, he reminded himself. Breathe, aim, squeeze.
His rifle only had iron sights, but against Legion marksmen, he didn't need anything fancy. His skill did the work. Milla dove behind a rusted road barrier, rolling into cover and snapping off a burst of fire. "They've got the high ground—we need to suppress them before they push any closer!"
Another round smacked into the Jeep's door with a sharp metallic ping, throwing a shower of sparks. Jack ducked behind a cracked concrete post, muttering curses under his breath.
"It's unusual for the Legion to be this smart," Jack said, locking the bipod of his LMG against the hood of the jeep. "I'll lay down cover fire. Case—pick off anything brave enough to show itself."
"Copy that," Case replied.
Jack opened up with the LMG, the heavy thumping drum of gunfire echoing across the ridge. Dust and debris exploded around the Legion positions as they ducked behind rocks and scrub. Case used the moment Jack bought them. He lined up targets—one Legionnaire creeping to flank, another rising to take a shot. He squeezed the trigger each time.
Corbin sprinted from one chunk of shattered concrete to the next, yelling over the gunfire, "They're trying to flank right! Milla—shift fire! Case, keep their center locked down!"
"On it!" Milla snapped back, leaning out just long enough to send a burst that shaved the top of the ridge, forcing two Legionnaires to pull back.
Case risked another quick look over the Jeep's hood.
More movement. More shapes. Dust trails where boots kicked down loose gravel.
He counted fast—one, two, five, eight—
At least twenty. Maybe closer to thirty.
Thirty Legionnaires against four Desert Rangers.
Case just smiled. The more Legion he could kill, the better. Those Legionnaires deserved everything they got. Heck, there would be no mercy for them, even if they surrendered to him.
"This is Farmstead—backup is on its way!" the radio crackled through Jack's headset, distant but clear.
"Finally," Jack muttered, racking his LMG.
Case ducked behind the Jeep, ejecting his empty magazine. He slammed in a fresh one with practiced ease, the motion fluid and crisp. He chambered a round, then slid back into position.
Corbin didn't wait.
"Rangers—on me!" he shouted.
He broke from cover entirely, charging toward the oncoming Legion with reckless precision. His lever-action rifle barked once—one Legionnaire dropped. Twice—another fell mid-stride. Corbin racked the lever again, fired a third shot, then the rifle clicked empty.
Without hesitation, he holstered it and drew his revolver, continuing forward as if the hail of incoming fire meant nothing.
"That cowboy…" Jack muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.
The Legion noticed Corbin instantly. A dozen rifles shifted to him, opening up in a concentrated volley. But the rounds sparked harmlessly off his armor—the advanced Desert Ranger combat suit absorbing the hits. The heavy coat alone was bullet-resistant; the actual armor plating underneath was something else entirely.
Corbin kept walking, firing his revolver with steady, precise shots.
Jack slammed a fresh belt into his LMG. "Alright. If he's going, I'm going."
He vaulted over the Jeep's hood in one clean motion and sprinted after Corbin, the LMG thundering as he laid down suppressive fire. Legionnaires ducked, stumbled, or hurled themselves behind rocks as Jack's bullets chewed through the ridge.
Milla and Case finally broke from cover, moving up behind the two armored Rangers—Milla on the left, Case on the right. Both carried standard service rifles, but their fire was relentless, controlled, and accurate.
The formation snapped together naturally:
Together, they advanced as a disciplined line—four Rangers pushing against thirty Legionnaires.
Case stepped in lock-step with Milla, firing between the gaps in Jack's suppressive bursts. Every time a Legionnaire rose to aim, he put a round into them—shoulder, chest, helmet, whatever he could hit.
Milla shouted over the roar of gunfire, "Keep pressure! Don't let them regroup!"
Case nodded, firing again. The Legion's formation was breaking—they hadn't expected the Rangers to push into them. The red-eyed rangers pushed forward. Corbin reloaded his lever-action rifle and his revolver quickly as they pushed forward on the ridge.
Milla advanced steadily, firing in short two-round bursts. "They're pulling back toward the ridge crest! Keep the pressure up!"
Corbin's revolver roared beside her, each shot clean, deliberate, deadly. "Don't let them regroup," he growled. "They'll rally if we give them thirty seconds."
The group finished them off, making sure no Legionnaire managed to retreat. The four Rangers kept pushing forward against the suicidal charge, dropping targets before any of them got close enough for melee. Every advance from the Legion ended the same way—cut down mid-sprint by disciplined Ranger fire.
Eventually, Case fired the last shot, dropping a final charging Legionnaire who never made it within ten meters. The moment the body hit the dirt, the ridge fell silent.
Case lowered his rifle, checked his remaining ammo, and took a steadying breath before regrouping with the others. Together, they climbed the rest of the ridge.
At the top, the world opened. From here, they could see everything—the broken desert stretching endlessly, the cracked spine of Highway 95, and far in the distance, the faint blue shimmer of the Colorado River.
But then Case froze.
A sudden chill crawled down his spine.
Because across the river—barely visible through the heat haze—something moved.
Not one figure.
Not several.
But an entire column of reds
Legion.