They say war is chaos. But when you've planned it, walked the ground, marked the names and gates and blind spots—when you've told yourself over and over who needs to die and who needs to live—it stops being chaos.
It becomes surgery.
And this morning, I was holding the scalpel.
Before first light, The Right Arm stood assembled.
Eighty-six able bodies. Vatos. Reformed Reapers. Homestead survivors. Guards. Medics. Farmers with rifles. Teenagers with nerves of steel.
Graves paced like a wolf beside the armor crates. Kara checked every bolt on her rig. Leah readied her second blade. Martinez stood just outside the inner gate, armored and silent, more ghost than man.
I looked across them all and said one thing:
"No more fire and we will end it now."
They didn't cheer.
They just moved.
We marched under fog and shadow. Martinez led the main assault team. Leah took forty through the trees on the west side. Daryl and Kara moved ahead—silent as ghosts, scouting the path to the wall. Graves and I brought the eastern strike squad.
The plan was simple:
Daryl disables the outer guard
Kara opens the northeast gate
Leah breaches the market wall
Main force hits center with Martinez at point
We give them one chance to surrender.
If they don't?
We burn it down.
I saw the first sentry before he saw us.
He leaned against a post, chewing jerky, rifle half-hung from his shoulder.
Daryl's bolt took him through the neck before he hit the alarm.
We dragged his body into the ditch.
Graves reached the east gate and placed two charges by the latch.
Boom. Hiss. Crack.
The gate creaked open.
Kara rushed in first, blade sweeping low. A soldier raised his pistol—too late. She struck across the wrist, spun, and drove a knee into his face.
I followed.
Three hostiles scrambled toward the bell tower.
"Don't let them ring it!" I shouted.
Graves dropped two with her rifle—dead-center shots.
I tackled the third to the ground. He swung a pipe. I ducked, slammed my shoulder into his chest, and drove my knife through his thigh.
He screamed.
"Quiet," I muttered, and hit him hard enough to drop him cold.
I heard the gunfire break out along the market wall.
Leah's group burst through the canvas stalls, using fruit carts and awnings as cover. Gunfire cracked. Bottles shattered. Civilians scattered screaming.
Leah didn't stop.
I saw her take down two guards in a blink—one with a hatchet to the shoulder, another with a quick, brutal jab of her elbow followed by a throat punch.
We funneled through the main road like fire through dry grass.
Martinez shouted orders to any civilian who didn't raise a weapon.
"Get to your knees! Hands up!"
Some obeyed.
Some didn't.
One older man drew a pistol and fired wildly.
I raised my rifle and dropped him with a single shot to the chest.
Two more men charged us near the old courthouse.
Kara caught one in a sweeping kick and Graves put the other down with a clean shot through the gut.
By the time the sun crested the trees, Woodbury was ours.
We held the central square. Every key junction. Every armory. Their main gate was wide open behind us.
The Governor's chained body was dragged to the center and dropped at my feet.
Blood stained his shirt from the last punch Martinez gave him before we left.
He looked up at the crowd gathering around us—men and women, scared, broken, and unsure.
I stood atop the steps of their old town hall, raised my rifle, and shouted:
"It's over."
"Your leader is finished."
"You have two choices," I said, turning slowly to face them all. "You can fight and fall. Or you can live."
" Join us and be a part of The Right Arm."
A long silence followed.
Then an older woman stepped forward, hands raised.
"I'm done fighting," she said.
Then a man dropped his rifle.
Then another.
And another.
I grabbed the Governor by the collar and hauled him to his knees.
"You know why this ends with your blood."
He sneered.
"You're just another me."
I looked him dead in the eye.
"No," I said. "I don't kill to rule. I kill so people like you stop ruling."
I pulled the trigger.
His body dropped.
The flame was out.
We stripped the remaining fighters of their weapons. Posted guards at every corner. Sent medics to the wounded.
Of the eighty-six we brought, seven were injured. One dead—Milo, a young scout from the Homestead. He'd taken a round to the chest saving a civilian.
We will honor him.
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