The desert, harsh and intolerant of outsiders, greeted unit with scorching sun and scorching sand.

Even after several hours, the stifling heat did not subside, and the adaptation process was complicated by the pursuit of enemy fighters. In a hurry, it was decided to split up in order to confuse the tracks.

A good part of the outfit had to be discarded along the way, otherwise risking overheating.

The walkie-talkies picked up the connection every other time, breaking off whenever it was possible to establish contact.

Nikto kept pulling at your forearm, whenever your legs got tangled and the desire to fall face first into the sand exceeded common sense.

"I already have this fucking sand in my a—"

He interrupted you with a hiss.

With a snort, you continued to trudge on, but the soldier pulled you towards him, pointing at something ahead.

"What the hell is this?" You whispered, peering at the moving object.

"Camel," he replied in the same tone as you.

You exchanged glances.

"Bedouins," you concluded.

Nikto nodded.

Feeling a simultaneous surge of joy and anxiety, you frowned.

Among the nomads, there were often those who were involved in the illegal drug and human trafficking.

"There's no choice," the man said, squeezing his fingers on your forearm, "I'll do the talking. Keep quiet and stick with me."

He looked at you.

"Is that clear?"