"Move! Move! Make way up front!"
On the jeep, guards were shouting loudly, signaling the soldiers in front not to block the way. The driver was frantically honking the horn, and people on the road hurriedly scattered, looking dissatisfied and muttered a few words, grumbling.
Beside him, General Alex Phillips was stiff-faced with a cigarette in his mouth, emanating a gloomy aura.
Damn, not firing a single shot and just running away—he still felt a surge of anger pressing on his chest.
Who was he?
The future War God of Mexico!
"Order the troops to speed up, set up a second line of defense at Cadreta!"
"Brigade commander, it's too late, the Northern Army's tanks are already behind us," cried an aide-de-camp next to him.
No sooner had he finished his words than gunfire was heard from behind, followed by the fearful cries of the soldiers, "Hurry up, move, they're catching up."
