The chaos on the east side was something else entirely.
Case could have sworn the horizon itself was burning. Fire climbed into the night sky in thick, rolling pillars, smoke piling higher and higher until it blurred the stars. Even from this distance, he could see the flicker of secondary explosions—fuel, ammo, something heavy cooking off and tearing itself apart.
Jacob hadn't exaggerated.
Whatever the veterans were doing, they certainly had overdone it, to the point that more than half of the Legion in the encampment was taken to the back, using whatever means, slow-moving convoy, horses, or even a Legion chariot.
Case brought the rifle back up, scanning the next encampment. Compared to the inferno to the east, this position looked almost deserted—sentries thinned, movement sloppy, attention pulled in the wrong direction.
"Second gun's still here," he whispered. "Crew's not even nervous—but they're not watching the perimeter either."
That was when something felt… off.
The encampment wasn't thin like the first one. Case counted more Decani than expected, and too many veterans. White helmets stood out clearly in the firelight—men who had survived long enough to earn them.
But it wasn't just the numbers.
It was their armor.
Sure, it was painted red—but this wasn't scrap or sports gear, not the usual leather and scavenged plating. This was real combat armor. Ballistic-grade. In-house design, it seemed, old pre-war combat armor remade and repainted in the Legion's brushed gold and deep crimson. Even the helmets had been reforged, shaped to mimic the Legion's iconic visage without sacrificing protection.
Case felt a chill settle in his gut.
"This isn't standard meat-shield Legion kit," he murmured.
Milla paused beside him, following his gaze. "No… that's not ceremonial."
"No," Case agreed. "That's issued, only reserved for those who climbed above the rank of Veteran Legionaire, at the very least, look, there are a lot of Decanus there, they are their NCOs, but this many NCOs with this kind of thing means one thing.."
"What?" Milla asked.
"They're specialists," Case said. "Melee. Ranged. Close-quarters. Trained to operate independently." His voice dropped. "The kind of Legionnaires you don't send to die."
One of them paused near the howitzer, resting a hand on the breach—not checking it, not guarding it. Just standing there, like he knew nothing was wrong.
"They're not nervous," Milla whispered.
"No," Case replied. "They're confident, and they are here to attack the other side."
Milla gave a large sigh, "So, what now? Got any plan?"
"A plan always exists," he said finally. "The problem is whether it's still viable." He swallowed. "Right now, I don't think you can get anywhere near that gun without a distraction. And if we don't destroy it now, we won't get another chance."
Milla glanced back at the howitzer. "They'll tighten security."
"They'll do worse," Case said. "Caesar's not stupid. And whoever's commanding these men isn't either. If they sense something's off, this whole place locks down tighter, and they will certainly fire the gun at the other side of the river."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Case exhaled.
"I'll draw them," he said.
Milla turned sharply. "How?"
"I take the machine gun up to the nearest ridge," Case replied, already tracing the terrain in his head. "Enough fire to make them think the diversion shifted north." He paused. "While they redeploy, you move."
Milla stared at him. "That's suicide."
Case shook his head. "Well, it looks like one, but I think I'm doing the right thing." His voice stayed calm, almost cynical. "They'll chase the noise. They'll commit specialists. That gives you a window."
"And you?"
"I don't stay." Case's jaw tightened. "I fire, displace, fire again. Keep them guessing. I fall back along a prepared route." He tapped his pack. "I'll seed it with charges. C4 on detonators—nothing fancy. They will be chasing me, but not without losing their men."
Milla searched his face. "That's bold."
"It's the only reasonable option left," Case said quietly. "If that gun fires, Cottowood Cove and Searchlight will suffer heavy casualties, heavy civilian casualties."
Case brought his rifle up, already measuring distances to the ridge.
"I can do this," he said. "You just have to trust me—and blow that gun the moment you get the chance."
Milla held his gaze for a long second.
Then she nodded. "Make them look the wrong way."
Case allowed himself one thin breath.
"Gladly."
Milla slipped her pack off and pulled out three bricks of C4, wiring them together with quick, practiced movements. She checked the detonators twice, then gave Case the rest of her C4 before loading her sack again.
"Ten minutes," she whispered. "After that, I don't care where you are, just return safely."
"Plenty," Case replied. "The moment the bullet started flying, start sneaking."
They separated without another word.
Case climbed toward the nearest ridge, keeping low, choosing a route that offered cover without wasting time. The ground grew rougher as he went—broken stone, sparse scrub, just enough elevation to overlook the encampment below.
Perfect.
By the time he reached the crest, his lungs were burning. He dropped prone behind a jagged slab of rock, slid the light machine gun off his back, and set it beside him. The weapon was fitted with a simple 4× optic—useful at range, but still a blunt instrument.
Not yet.
Below him, the Legion specialists remained clustered near the howitzer. Relaxed. Confident. Too confident. Case shook his head slightly and set the machine gun aside. It was inaccurate for this distance. He needed control first.
He brought up the marksman rifle instead.
With a practiced motion, he twisted off the suppressor and let it fall into the dirt beside him. No point hiding now. This was meant to be a very loud diversion. Case settled the rifle into his shoulder, adjusted his breathing, and aimed at the edge of the formation—far enough that they'd have to move to respond.
"Alright," he murmured to himself. "Eyes on me."
He squeezed the trigger.
The shot cracked across the night, sharp and unmistakable.
A Decanus dropped instantly, helmet snapping back as he hit the ground.
Case fired again. Then again. Measured, deliberate shots. Each round punched through helmets that weren't meant to stop a rifle at this range.
Below, the camp erupted.
Orders were shouted. White-helmeted figures snapped into motion, spreading out and pointing toward the ridge. They didn't charge blindly. They advanced with discipline—leapfrogging, laying down suppressive fire, using cover as they moved.
Good, Case thought. Stay focused on me.
He kept firing, pacing his shots just enough to hold their attention. His scope stayed trained on heads and shoulders breaking cover along the slope. When their return fire began to tighten, he twisted the suppressor back onto the rifle, rolled aside, and grabbed the machine gun.
Reposition.
Rounds slammed into the rock where his head had been seconds earlier. Stone chipped and dust exploded into his face as bullets tore through his last firing point.
Case fired a short, brutal burst, then moved again.
Shoot. Shift. Shoot. Shift.
"RANGER!"
"FUCKING RANGERS!"
Case grinned thinly as he slid into his next position, slamming a fresh magazine into the marksman rifle.
Yeah, he thought. That's right.
As the Legion got closer, he stowed away the marksman rifle, then grabbed the machine gun. He then grinned.
"Get this, you slaver fuckers."
The machine gun chugged to life, its recoil steady and familiar. Case laid down accurate suppressive fire, walking bursts across the hillside, stitching rounds toward muzzle flashes as they flared in the dark. The Legion veterans hit the dirt, discipline intact but momentum broken.
Case knew them.
They were trained—but Case had something they didn't.
Perspective.
He fought with tactics. He didn't need to overwhelm them—just stay ahead of them. He had enough ammunition to keep them pinned, to break their advances piece by piece. Bodies fell one by one. Each time a Legionnaire exposed himself for a second too long, Case punished it.
The Legion answered with disciplined suppressive fire—assault carbines firing, shotguns thundering, a grenade arcing high before detonating short of his position.
The high ground saved him.
Then—
BOOM.
The night tore itself open.
Fire erupted from the encampment below as the howitzer vanished in a violent bloom of flame. Secondary explosions followed—artillery shells cooking off, shrapnel ripping through tents and sandbags. The blast washed over the ridge seconds later, a hot wind carrying dust and smoke.
Milla had done her job.
Case didn't wait to admire it.
He fired one last suppressive burst, long enough to keep heads down, then rolled back from the ridge and grabbed his pack. The machine gun went first, slung hard against his back. He moved fast now, low and deliberate, following the withdrawal route he'd planned from the start.
It was time to disappear.
Behind him, the Legion shouted in confusion and fury, their gun gone, their formation shattered.
Ahead of him was darkness, broken ground, and a way out.
Time to escape.
Escape from Colorado.