The desert dawn burned in streaks of blood-orange as the rebels and Miireey clan crept through the scrublands on Mogadishu’s edge. The city loomed—a sprawl of mud-brick shanties, colonial ruins, and minarets piercing a sky bruised red. Abdi led, her one eye glinting like a blade, her spear’s scarred haft gripped tight. Duubow Haruun, Miireey sovereign, matched her stride, war axe catching the fading light, silver braids swaying. Their force—rebels in threadbare tunics, Miireey in hides studded with bone and iron—settled into a ravine outpost of tattered tents and splintered barricades, the air thick with dust and dread.

  Abdi knelt beside a crate, unrolling a crude map scratched into leather. “Here’s the chokehold,” she rasped, jabbing the ravine’s throat. “The battlefield’s a crescent: gullies here, deep and narrow for close kills. Rooftops east, high ground for snipers. Alleys west, tight and cluttered, where we set decoy fires to lure their eyes. The ridge north—your riders’ perch, Haruun—drops into a dry wadi that loops behind for a rear strike. We hit Tishworth’s column from all sides, no escape.”

  Haruun traced the wadi’s curve, brow furrowed. “Tight run for my riders. One slip—rocks, sand, no room—and they’re caught. Horses don’t pivot under fire.”

  “Don’t slip,” Abdi snapped, her glare unyielding. “Your people know this land’s veins—Tishworth’s men read paper. He’s a bull, Haruun. Every village, he storms straight, waves of men, no finesse. We drown him in his own weight.”

  Ahmed crouched beside her, rifle slung across his chest. “Streets below are packed—market’s alive with women, kids. If we pull this, they’re in the crossfire.”

  Abdi’s jaw clenched. “Whisper should warn them—mosques’ll sing when it’s time. We can’t clear the streets without tipping our hand. Tishworth doesn’t care who’s caught—he’ll torch it all.”

  Haruun adjusted his axe strap, voice low. “Your Whisper’s quiet. Usually, they’d have the city spooked by now. Ghosts that silent make me twitchy.”

  Abdi’s eyes narrowed. “They’ve never failed us—mosque warnings, supply drops. If they’re quiet, they’re holding for a reason. Focus on the fight.”

  Ahmed scratched his jaw, unease coiling. “Hope you’re right. Feels off.”

  Yusuf, perched on a rock, wiped sweat from his brow. “Rooftops are set—sightlines clear. Just say when.”

  Abdi stood, rolling the map. “Plan’s locked. Rebels, gullies—knives and rifles, stay low. Yusuf, east rooftops, snipe officers. Leyla, Mahad, western alleys for decoys. Miireey, prime those chariots.” She caught Ahmed’s eye, softer. “You holding?”

  He nodded, meeting her gaze. “Yeah. Don’t go far when it kicks off.”

  Her smirk cracked her armor. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” To Haruun: “Your riders better be as good as you brag.”

  Haruun’s grin was all teeth. “Better. Keep your end, and we’ll carve Tishworth’s heart out.”

  The Miireey warriors moved, hides clanking—thick leather with bone plates, painted with red clan runes. Long spears, curved blades, and rifles gleamed. Their chariots, wooden frames bound in leather, creaked as horses snorted, hooves stamping. Rebels dispersed: Yusuf scaled an eastern rooftop, sniper rifle ready; Leyla and Mahad vanished into the western alleys to set fires; others burrowed into the central gullies, blades and guns primed.

  A wail sliced the air. Mosque speakers roared: “People of Mogadishu, flee! Danger comes—seek safety beyond the walls!” The cry looped, shrill, a gut-punch.

  Below, streets erupted. A mother dragged her screaming son, tripping over a spilled millet sack, shawl tearing as she shoved through the mob. An old man’s cane snapped, dropping him into the mud, trampled by a boy shouting for his sister. Donkeys bucked, lashed by owners, the crowd a roiling sea of terror.

  Yusuf hissed from his rooftop. “Whisper’s late, but they’re loud. Streets are clearing—gives us room.”

  Ahmed’s gut churned. “Too sudden. Something’s wrong.”

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  Abdi’s voice was sharp. “They’re with us. Focus.”

  At the British outpost, Colonel Tishworth faced his men, black greatcoat studded with iron spikes, stark against their khaki. “Rebels think they’re clever. They’re not. We hit tonight—fast, total. No survivors. Empire demands it.”

  A sergeant shifted. “Sir, they’ve got Miireey riders, chariots. Could be a slog.”

  Tishworth’s lip curled. “Slog’s fine. They break under steel. Move.”

  In the ravine’s gullies, silence clung like rot, air heavy with sweat and fear. Ahmed’s knuckles whitened on his rifle, pulse hammering. “Too quiet,” he muttered.

  Abdi nodded, spear planted. “They’re close. I smell it.”

  Leyla’s voice hissed from the western alleys. “Decoys lit—fires burning bright. Should pull their eyes.”

  Mahad growled. “Better. I’m itching to gut someone.”

  A flare cracked—from the west, not the decoys. British boots thundered, two hundred strong, rifles spitting fire with surgical precision. No clumsy charge—they’d known, striking the flank, shredding the rebels’ setup.

  “Fall back!” Abdi roared, voice lost in chaos. Bullets tore through tents, punching through canvas and flesh. Molotovs arced, bursting into flames that swallowed barricades, heat blistering skin. Ahmed dragged Abdi behind a crate in the gully, lead chewing the ground.

  “How’d they know?” he shouted, firing blind, shots desperate.

  Abdi’s arm bled, a splinter embedded. She ripped it out, teeth gritted, blood streaming. “Betrayed. Someone sold us.”

  A radio crackled nearby—Tishworth’s voice, faint: “Gullies—center, fifty rebels…” A cold reply: “Confirmed. Rooftops—east, ten snipers…”

  Abdi’s eyes widened. “Whisper.”

  Haruun’s voice boomed, “Miireey—charge!” From the northern ridge, his cavalry surged, spears lowered, hooves shaking the earth. But the British pivoted, half pinning the gullies with volleys, half flanking the riders with gunfire that ripped through horse and man. A chariot flipped, driver crushed, skull bursting, blood and brains mixing with dirt.

  Abdi bolted from the gully, spear plunging into a soldier’s gut. He screamed, clawing as she twisted the blade, intestines spilling wet and steaming. Ahmed fired beside her, dropping two—one’s head snapped back, blood spraying; the other’s chest caved, ribs cracking. The British pressed, splitting into squads—some firing, others hurling firebombs that set tents and bodies ablaze.

  Yusuf, on the eastern rooftops, sniped until a bullet slammed his shoulder, spinning him. He screamed, blood soaking his tunic, but clung to his rifle, firing one-handed, dropping a soldier with a shaky shot. Another round grazed his leg, tearing muscle; he crawled to a chimney, still firing, each shot a grimace of pain, cursing through clenched teeth.

  Leyla fought in the western alleys, dagger slashing a soldier’s throat, blood jetting across her face. Another grabbed her arm; she headbutted him, nose collapsing, then drove her blade into his eye, brain matter oozing. A Molotov exploded, flames searing her leg—she screamed, rolling to smother them. A bullet punched her chest, blood bubbling. Gasping, on her last breath, she crawled forward, dagger trembling, slashing a soldier’s Achilles, his scream piercing. She swung again, vision fading, a feral snarl, refusing to die quiet.

  Mahad held the gully, stolen rifle barking. He dropped three—clean shots, skulls popping—before a grenade landed. He dove, but the blast shredded his side, ribs exposed, flesh hanging. He roared, firing until his clip ran dry, then swung the rifle, caving a soldier’s jaw. A bayonet gutted him, bowels spilling; he collapsed, gasping, a choked curse his last sound.

  Haruun carved through the ravine, axe splitting a Brit’s skull—gray matter sprayed, sticking to his hide. Another charged; he dodged, hacking the man’s arm off, blood fountaining. A third shot point-blank—Haruun’s chest erupted red, and he dropped, axe skittering, breath a wet gurgle.

  Ahmed saw it, fury igniting. “Duubow!” He charged, tackling the shooter, smashing his rifle butt into the man’s face—teeth shattered, jaw crumpled. A bayonet grazed his ribs, slicing flesh; he roared, snapping the soldier’s neck.

  Tishworth’s radio crackled again: “Abdi—top of the wadi, sixty horsemen…” He emerged through the haze, StG 44 in hand—sleek, alien, spitting death in bursts. A Miireey warrior rushed; the gun’s chatter tore his chest, ribs jutting through hide, blood pooling. Tishworth advanced, calm, firing into rebels and civilians—bodies piled, writhing or still, ground slick with gore.

  Abdi stared at the weapon, breath hitching. “What is that thing?” Short, black, spitting bullets faster than thought, each shot punching through bone and steel. A round ripped a warrior’s arm off, screams choking as he bled out.

  Ahmed yanked her. “Don’t gawk—move!”

  The massacre churned. Yusuf, shoulder and leg bleeding, fired from the rooftop, each shot a grimace, holding the line. Leyla, chest wound bubbling, slashed another soldier’s thigh, dagger slipping from blood-slick hands, but swung again, snarling, barely alive yet fighting. Haruun’s riders collapsed, horses shrieking as bullets shredded flanks. One warrior, stomach torn, clung to his mount, intestines dragging, ramming a British line, crushing two before buckling, pinned in blood and bone. The ravine was a slaughterhouse—limbs strewn, screams fading, air thick with ash and death.

  Tishworth reloaded behind a crumbling wall, movements mechanical. A rebel charged; he drove the StG’s stock into the man’s throat—cartilage caved, a gasp—then stomped his skull flat, brains oozing. Another came; he fired, torso bursting, then snapped a third’s spine with a gloved fist. His greatcoat, soaked crimson, flared, a king of carnage.

  Earlier…

  Tishworth’s column marched when his radio hissed. “Colonel. Whisper here. Rebels plan a chokehold—gullies for knives, rooftops for snipers, alleys for decoys. Miireey riders hit from the ridge, loop through the wadi.”

  He gripped the set. “Why hand me their throat?”

  “Abdi’s a wildfire—burns too free. She’s bad for business. You want her dead; we want her gone.”

  “Mosques sing your warnings. Thought you were their lifeline.”

  “We warn, they live—because of us. ‘Flee the capital,’ they owe us. No flag, no face, just leash. Governments fall. We endure.”

  “Positions.”

  “Gullies—center, fifty rebels. Rooftops—east, ten snipers. Alleys—decoys, fires, twenty men. Miireey riders, sixty, ridge north, wadi loop.”

  Tishworth nodded to his aide. “Redirect. Hit from the west—cut their trap.”

  The aide hesitated. “Our flank—”

  “Do it,” Tishworth snapped. “They’re ours.”

  In the ravine, Abdi faced Tishworth, blood-soaked, pistol trembling. She fired—missed, wood splintering. He turned, StG 44 rising, eyes cold.

  “You’re done,” he said.

  She bared bloodied teeth. “Come take it.”

  Ahmed, wounded, pulled her behind a pillar. Her eyes met his—pain, fire, love. “Go,” she rasped, pistol steady. “Finish it.”

  He kissed her blood-stained forehead. “Always.”

  The night roared, a grave swallowing all. Smoke curled, and the Whisper’s voice crackled faintly: “We warned you. We endure