As the truck neared to within one hundred yards of the bridge Illya stood and waved his arms beckoning the truck forward. Passing quickly in front of his men, to ensure they would not fire, he walked down the asphalt and towards the truck.
After the whoosh of the air-brake being set, the drivers door opened and a tall, lanky man with a cowboy hat suddenly jumped from the cab. Oblivious to the danger he was in walked towards Illya.
“Hey pardner, what's this? You'ins with the Army?” he asked in confusion.
Smiling, Illya uttered out in his limited English vocabulary, “You need to leave. Right now.”
Stopping and straightening somewhat, the trucker replied, “Say that again boy. You some kinda foreigner?” His eyes narrowed somewhat when he realized Illya was armed.
“Please,” said Illya. “Please just leave right now.” His heavy accent garbled the words but the intention was clear.
The trucker, clearly having none of this, fired back, “You boys'n can play dress em'up but you ain't telling me to skedaddle.”
Illya took another step towards the trucker, shifted his rifle around, and pointed it at the obstinate truck driver. “Please. You must go. Now. Go.” He motioned with his rifle to for the man to leave.
The trucker was about to reply again when a shot rang out from behind and to the side of Illya. Ducking instinctively, he fell to the ground to avoid being shot in the back by the young troops behind him.
After it was clear there would be no other shots Illya stood and walked over to the dead truck driver. Sighing at the senseless loss of life he motioned a few of his men forward.
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