The rocks of Bolea were blackened from older wars, the kind no one remembered clearly anymore.
The ridge overlooked a narrow road through the low hills, with just enough space for a convoy, just enough elevation for a trap.
Franco's men had learned.
They weren't running this time.
Captain Valdés crouched behind a fallen wall, watching.
His field gun crews had already ranged the approach.
Sandbags were stacked in overlapping lines. Snipers were dug into slits between old stones.
They'd studied the French tempo how they advanced, how their recon units worked.
"They'll come before noon," Valdés muttered.
His lieutenant checked his watch. "If they stick to pattern, yes."
"When they do, we show them we're not the same fools from Jaca."
At 11:13, the sound came, low and steady.
Engines.
French armored trucks rolled into view.
Behind them, half-tracks carrying infantry, their rifles slung lazily, unaware.
