UNDISCLOSED LOCATION

  Location, dates and names have been redacted or changed.

  Nobody was really surprised when the President pulled the 49.3. There was no way in hell a regular vote would’ve passed — not for something like bringing back the death penalty. Not even with the crabs clawing at France’s borders. Parliament would’ve torn it apart on principle, or ego, or both.

  But the truth is, the crisis made it possible.

  The country was splintered. Millions deployed to the front. Half the train lines weren’t running. Cities barely talked to each other. Protests? What protests? The streets of Paris were half-empty, and the ones still out there were either too exhausted or too afraid. She wasn’t worried about a crowd kicking in the doors of the élysée.

  People were torn — really torn. Most found the idea repulsive. Shooting your own sons for desertion? It felt medieval. But not everyone minded. Some, maybe more than anyone wanted to admit, thought it made sense.

  “It’ll bring back discipline.", "Set an example.", "They turned their backs on France:"

  That’s what you'd hear in the few bars still open. Or across dinner tables, from uncles and grandfathers not fighting on the front lines. Everyone else? They just kept their heads down and hoped not to get drafted next.

  I was in the gendarmerie when it happened. My brother had died just a week earlier, somewhere in Germany. I still hadn’t seen a crab with my own eyes — just footage, grainy and shaky, full of screaming and static. But I could feel which way the wind was blowing.

  It started as whispers — background noise. Some aging pundit on state TV grumbling about “moral decay.” A late-night radio host wondering aloud if we’d lost our spine. Then a quiet mention in the Assembly. The networks still running called it “unthinkable.” One even laughed it off. “She wouldn’t dare,” they said.

  And then, she did.

  She didn’t ask for a vote, she knew better. Instead, the Prime Minister invoked Article 49.3 of the Constitution, skipping the floor debate entirely. No public discussion, no messy compromises. It was framed as a wartime emergency measure a “temporary amendment” to restore “discipline and cohesion” in the ranks. It changed just enough of the military code to authorize capital punishment for desertion in active combat zones. A bullet, not a courtroom.

  All they had to do was survive the 24-hour backlash window — and they did. The opposition tried to file a no-confidence motion, but most of them were scattered, stranded, or just too damn scared. The government held.

  And just like that, the law was passed.

  But all of a sudden, it felt like Paris was full again. Alive, but not in a good way. Our trucks barely made it through the gates of the Garde Républicaine barracks in central Paris. I still don’t know who decided to hold such a solemn event there. We could’ve taken the prisoners somewhere else—somewhere quieter, less symbolic.

  There were four of them.

  Two were in for desertion, along with raping a Red Cross nurse behind the frontlines and killing two gendarmes near Nancy before they were caught. No one argued about those two. They’d picked them right.

  But the other two…"

  He looks out the window, his expression slipping just for a moment, betraying more than his words.

  "The other two had deserted too, yeah. But they also started a revolt in the camp they were being held at. Just two leftist boys. Didn't like them much, personally. But they sure as hell didn’t deserve this."

  He pauses, jaw tight.

  "I still stand by that. You know it’s bad when everyone—from the Pope to the UN Secretary General, and every person behind their TV screen—is asking for mercy." He paused, shaking his head. "Deserters who raped, stole, and murdered behind the lines were a dime a dozen."

  "There were forty of us in that underground parking lot. Most fully geared up, riot helmets on, shields ready. We could hear the noise and commotion outside—the kind that makes your chest tighten. Fireworks, or something that sounded like them, shook the concrete. Shouting, slogans, waves of voices crashing above us.

  We were ready to move if they made it past the yard and reached the parking entrance. Every one of us was wound tight.

  Then the gate opened. Just for a second. Enough for us to glimpse the yard and the massive iron gate on the far end. I don’t know how, but they’d managed to shut the yard gate behind the trucks. Locked us in. A few protesters had made it in, but they were quickly apprehended—tackled, pinned, dragged off without ceremony.

  The trucks rolled to a stop in front of us. Prisoner transports, of course. The back door creaked open and a GIGN operator stepped out first. You should’ve seen the look on his face. His balaclava was soaked with sweat, his shoulders slumped like the weight of it all had finally landed. He looked like he might collapse right there from sheer relief that he wasn’t dragged out and torn apart by a mob.

  Outside, the noise kept coming—chanting, pounding, the sharp pops of fireworks or maybe rocks slamming metal. And over it all, the low, constant hum of a crowd that was past the point of fear and deep into anger.

  They started unloading the prisoners.

  They removed the blindfolds, let them hang around their necks, they would need it later. The two I first talked about were shaking. One tried to put his weight against the truck, probably felt the world shaking around him.

  The two others were more composed. One looked as if he was annoyed by all of this, the other had just this stare as if he had accepted his fate on the drive here.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Someone who had been standing next to my commander stepped forward just as I grabbed the rapist and murderer from under his arm and hauled him to his feet. The man was trembling, still bloody, barely able to stand. I thought he was going to faint right there, but he didn’t.

  That’s when the other figure lifted his balaclava.

  I recognized him instantly — not from face, but from the absence of grime, the crispness of his gear. Too clean. Uniform too big, too new. The kind of guy who’d never slept in a trench or pissed in a bottle. When he pulled off the mask, it confirmed what I’d suspected.

  The Justice Minister.

  He pulled a folded piece of paper from inside his vest — not shaking, not hesitating — and began reading in a flat, official voice, like he was delivering the weather forecast.

  “[REDACTED], you have been found guilty of desertion, rape, and murder under Military Code 44-B.

  As decided by the Republic, your sentence is death. The sentence will be careied out immediately.

  You have the right to speak any final words. After which, you will be escorted.”

  The man collapsed as the Minister finished speaking. He buckled at the knees, a sudden, pathetic weight I nearly couldn’t hold. I struggled to keep him up, and one of my colleagues moved in beside me, wordlessly grabbing his other arm. Together, we lifted him, dragging his limp body forward.

  He whimpered. The sound was muffled, broken. I couldn’t tell what he was saying — it didn’t matter anyway.

  The Minister’s eyes met mine. No judgment. No pity. Just a single nod. I knew what I had to do.

  We started moving, pulling him across the concrete. As we neared the far side of the garage, he found something inside himself. Suddenly, he was kicking, flailing, desperate to get away. The terror in his eyes was wild, but there was nothing left to save him.

  And all the while, we were watched.

  The other gendarmes and soldiers stood silent in the shadows, their visors up, their balaclavas tight around their faces. The only thing visible were their eyes — cold, empty, unforgiving.

  Some stared at the deserter with pure disgust, the kind you’d reserve for filth. Others with hatred, like he wasn’t human anymore — just an obstacle to be removed.

  Not one face showed sympathy. Not one face flinched.

  I could feel their eyes, sharp and biting, like knives against my skin. Some of them glanced toward me, a few holding their gaze, but none of them looked away. Their faces — all covered except their eyes — were an eerie mask of uniformity. Every stare seemed to say the same thing: He got what was coming to him. He deserved this.

  We didn’t even need words.

  Together, we fought to drag him onto the plastic tarp, the edges fraying like it wasn’t meant to hold a body this heavy. Once we had him in place, we left him there, a discarded thing, trembling and broken. His brother in arms was next — no struggle, no sound, just a limp, resigned surrender. Two gendarmes guided him over to the tarp and sat him down beside the first deserter, side by side.

  This one, the second man, was quieter — more contained. His eyes were vacant, locked onto the far wall, but not seeing it. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. His whole body had surrendered before his mind caught up with him.

  Meanwhile, the two GIGN officers fussed over his handcuffs, checking them again, making sure the restraints were tight. It was like they were more concerned about the cuffs than the men in them — as if the whole thing was just another procedure. Just another task to complete.

  I turned and walked away, my boots heavy against the concrete as I made my way back toward the two others — the van and the Minister.

  My throat was dry, but I didn’t stop.

  It was funny, in a way, the way the Minister looked around the parking garage. His eyes scanned the room — soldiers, gendarmes, special forces — all of us standing there in tense silence. Yet not a single one of us stepped forward. No one wanted to be the one to drag those men to the wall.

  They weren’t like the rapists we’d dealt with before. They hadn’t murdered any of our comrades. No, these were just “de la gauchiasse”, the “bobo gaucho” types — leftists who’d read too much theory and actually tried to live by it. The kind of idiots who started a prison riot because they thought they could change the system by screaming at it. The kind of idiots who, in this moment, got caught up in something they couldn’t control.

  I couldn’t help but notice how the Minister’s gaze settled on me, sharp and calculated. He didn’t say a word, just nodded toward the next prisoner, a silent command. I knew exactly what he wanted.

  I walked over and grabbed the kid by the arm. Didn’t need to. He wasn’t struggling, wasn’t planning to charge at anyone. He just stood there, his face pale and resigned.

  The Minister didn’t even need the paper in his hands. He stared the kid down for what felt like forever. Those cold, emotionless eyes never blinked. Then, in a flat, unwavering tone:

  “You have been found guilty of desertion, insubordination, and inciting rebellion under military code 44-A.

  As ruled by the French Republic, your sentence is death.

  The sentence will be carried out immediately.”

  A pause.

  “You have the right to speak any final words. After which, you will be escorted.”

  There was another pause — a long, suffocating silence.

  The kid finally spoke up, his voice tight but trying to be snarky, like a defiant last act before the inevitable.

  “How’s the breakfast in this joint?”

  A few of the soldiers couldn’t help themselves. Some were too tense to even breathe, but others chuckled, despite the dark humor. The kid was trying to hold onto something, anything, to break the crushing weight of the moment.

  The Minister didn’t flinch. Didn’t even acknowledge the laugh. He just stared at the kid, his expression unreadable, his gaze like cold steel.

  I couldn’t make out what the Minister was thinking. Was it contempt? Disappointment? Or was he just numb? Maybe it didn’t matter anymore.

  “Let’s get this shit over with,” he muttered, his voice flat, almost bored. Without waiting for anyone, he walked toward the wall. I held his arm as we moved, but he was the one setting the pace, pulling his feet with a defiance I could barely understand.

  There weren’t as many stares this time. The soldiers, the gendarmes — most of them looked away, pretending to focus on something else. A few still glanced at him, eyes full of disgust, but it wasn’t the same intensity as before. The second prisoner’s fate felt like just another piece of the machinery grinding forward, and they wanted to be anywhere else.

  By the time we reached the wall, the kid finally resisted. Up until then, he’d been compliant, but now, with his knees about to hit the concrete, he seemed to find a shred of courage — or maybe something worse.

  “Naah, naah, naah,” he muttered, shaking his head, and then he stood up. His body jerked, and he turned away from the wall, facing us instead.

  “You’ll shoot those two scum in the back of the head if you want, but you’re not getting rid of me and my friend that easily,” he said, defiance clinging to his voice like a last stand.

  I turned around, my eyes finding the commander. He was the one pulling the strings, the one orchestrating this whole mess. He didn’t say anything. Just a silent nod.

  I felt a knot in my gut, but I couldn’t show it.

  “Don’t try anything funny.” I said it quietly, my voice as firm as I could manage. I took a step back, watching as his friend, the other prisoner, stood up and joined him — still on the tarp, tears streaking down his cheeks.

  I didn’t look at him as my colleague lifted the blindfold and fastned it over his eyes. It was the final step, and it made the whole thing worse.

  As I did the same to the defiant one, I heard his voice, low but clear.

  “Ah, ?a ira, ?a ira, ?a ira…”

  I walked back, watching as the men — the ones randomly chosen for the task — took their positions in front of the prisoners. Four of them, a mix of police and army, all armed with rifles that were more than capable of doing the job.

  The orders being shouted around me felt muffled, distant. Same for the shouting, chanting and explosions outside. My brain couldn’t hold onto them, as if the words themselves were slipping away into the chaos. Some of the prisoners’ whimpers filled the air — low, desperate, soaked with fear. But even that faded into the background.

  What I remembered most clearly was my closest friend, one of the gendarmes, turning away from the scene. He looked down, his hands shooting up to cover his ears like a child trying to block out a nightmare. He didn’t want to hear it. He couldn’t bear it. I saw him there, trembling, but there was nothing any of us could do. A room full of armed men, all with their own supposed free will.

  And then, through the haze, I heard it again in my head— the last thing I would remember from this moment:

  “Ah, ?a ira, ?a ira, ?a ira…”