I raised a hand in the air as I slowly went down on one knee.
At once, the squelching of boots against the damp ground and the hiss of grass brushing against fabric ceased. The line froze. Sargento Guzman crept to my side, his movements smooth despite the mud. He was followed by Mario, who crouched low, unable to hide the nervousness on his face—his wide eyes flicked between the trees and the distant lights of the town.
On the other side of the field, Roque's platoon had also halted. The cadet and a few of his men had pushed slightly ahead of our line, now crouched behind a group of large boulders. Their outlines were barely visible in the faint grayness before dawn.
We had successfully advanced to the outskirts of Buenavista. The treeline, scattered shrubs, and tall cogon grass, coupled with the slight downward slope, gave us the cover we needed to approach undetected.
Our first hurdle lay just ahead—right at the mouth of the town proper.
