Conrad Happe stood stiffly by the tailgate of the idling truck, boots planted in the mud, rifle butt resting on the ground, one gloved hand gripping the barrel just below the sights. He tried to look proper, straight-backed and professional, but he suspected he only looked nervous and out of place. The diesel engine rumbled behind him, vibrating through his boots, the smell of fuel mixing with cold morning air and the sour tang of wet wool.

  Obergefreiter Harless stood a few paces away, coat collar pulled tight around his neck. Every few moments he checked his wristwatch, jaw working as if chewing on irritation itself. His eyes flicked toward Conrad from time to time, as if to ensure the boy hadn’t slumped or wandered off.

  Harless muttered something under his breath just as Gefreiter Bauer appeared from around the corner of the nearby building, his rifle cradled in his arms.

  “Well?” Harless asked, his tone clipped, one eyebrow raised.

  Bauer shook his head, letting out a huff that turned to fog in the air. “Still in that damn meeting,” he said, sounding equal parts bored and annoyed.

  Harless threw up his hands. “What more do they need to discuss? I swear they get some kind of thrill from keeping us standing around doing nothing.”

  Bauer smirked. “Well said, Obergefreiter. I’m certainly eager to be off. Luckau has a pub that serves a proper brew. None of this brown dishwater they call beer.”

  Harless gave a humorless grunt. “You’re assuming they’ll let us. Most likely we’ll hand off the prisoner, refuel, and get told to turn right back around. No time to breathe, let alone drink.”

  Bauer shrugged, his grin widening. “One can always hope.” He glanced past Harless and caught sight of Conrad, still locked in place like a statue beside the truck. “Boy,” Bauer called out, “are you a fence post?”

  Conrad blinked, startled by the sudden attention. “Neine, Gefreiter Bauer.”

  Bauer nodded sagely, pretending to think. “Well, you certainly stand like one.”

  Harless snorted, half amused and turned his attention back to his watch while Bauer checked his own and sighed. “Suppose we let the boy get us some food for the journey? Maybe figure out where Karl wandered off to.”

  Harless groaned as he stretched his neck, the leather of his coat creaking. “Ja,” he muttered, turning toward Conrad. His eyes swept the young man up and down. “Conrad Happe, speak with supply about some rations. Since Karl clearly cannot handle the task himself.”

  Conrad snapped to attention. “Jawohl, Obergefreiter Harless.”

  “Thank you,” Harless said with a wave.

  Conrad relaxed, his back aching from holding the same rigid stance for what felt like hours. He adjusted his glasses and turned sharply, walking toward the village center, boots squelching through the mud. Behind him, Bauer called out in a tone that hovered somewhere between jest and sincerity. “You make the Fatherland proud, boy.”

  Conrad hesitated for a split second, unsure if he was being mocked or praised, but he chose to take it as the latter and kept walking. The sound of Bauer and Harless talking faded behind him, replaced by the muted noises of a camp barely holding itself together. He passed a few soldiers on patrol, their rifles slung low, faces pale and tired. None looked particularly alert. They moved like men going through the motions, the energy of discipline long since drained.

  When he reached the supply tent, the flap hung open, swaying slightly in the breeze. Inside, he saw stacks of crates, sacks of potatoes, and a lone lantern burning low, its light casting long shadows. But no Karl.

  Conrad frowned, rubbing his gloved hands together for warmth as he peered inside. “Where in God’s name did you wander off to, Karl?” he muttered quietly, and stepped into the dim tent to look around.

  Only the supply officer was inside, a thin man with a pencil tucked behind his ear and a cigarette clinging to the corner of his lip. He muttered to himself while counting folded uniforms, his brow furrowed with the single-minded focus of someone who had been doing the same job for too many years.

  Conrad hesitated at the entrance before clearing his throat. “Excuse me, sir?”

  The man paused mid-count and looked up with raised eyebrows. “Ja?”

  Conrad swallowed, his voice cracking slightly from the cold. “Was a Karl Brenner here? He was supposed to grab some food for the prisoner transport.”

  The officer frowned, tapping the pencil against his ledger. “Neine. No one has stopped by.”

  Conrad nodded quickly. “Thank you,” he said, retreating before the man could ask further questions.

  He stepped back into the chill air and glanced toward the cluster of small buildings at the village’s edge. The latrines were over that way, a miserable row of wooden stalls beside a patch of frozen mud. He started walking in that direction, the wind biting at his face.

  As he passed the narrow alley between two houses, a door creaked open and Karl Brenner stepped out, closing it quickly behind him. His eyes went wide when he spotted Conrad, and for a moment he looked like a child caught stealing. Then he grinned, awkward and unconvincing.

  “Karl?” Conrad called.

  Before he could ask anything else, Karl hurried forward, grabbing him by the shoulder and pushing him toward the alley.

  “What are you doing?” Conrad demanded, stumbling a little, his glasses slipping down his nose.

  “Shhh!” Karl hissed, glancing over his shoulder. His movements were jittery, his fingers fidgeting with something inside his coat.

  Conrad sighed, already regretting coming to look for him. “Karl, what did you do?”

  Karl ignored the question, steering him behind the building where they were hidden from view. His grin widened into something proud and conspiratorial. He reached into his uniform and withdrew a sheathed knife.

  Conrad’s stomach turned as realization dawned. Karl’s sticky fingers had found a new prize.

  “Are you mad?”

  Karl shook his head, eyes alight. “Neine. I just saw an opportunity, and I took it, my dear Happe.”

  He drew the knife from the sheath with a slow flourish, the edge gleamed faintly in the morning light. The blade was long and double-edged, its body thick and sturdy, tapering into a vicious point. A sturdy brass guard separated the blade from the dark, worn handle, and the metal bore a reddish discoloration that made Conrad’s throat tighten.

  Karl turned the knife in his hand, admiring it. “I went to get food and was stopped by an Unteroffizier. I was asked to help move crates into command’s quarters. This was sitting on a table, half buried under a stack of papers.”

  Conrad rubbed a hand over his face, exasperated. “You stole it? From command? Are you trying to get shot?”

  Karl grinned wider, clearly proud of himself. “I liberated it. And you must admit, it is a fine blade.”

  He offered it to Conrad, who immediately shook his head. “We should return. Obergefreiter Harless was getting annoyed.”

  “Harless is perpetually annoyed,” Karl muttered, sheathing the knife and tucking it into his coat. His tone was flippant, but his eyes kept darting back toward the command building.

  Conrad ignored him and started walking again, shaking his head as Karl followed close behind. Glancing over his shoulder every few steps like he was expecting to hear boots on his trail.

  They reached the supply tent once more, where the officer handed over a satchel without looking up from his ledger. The bag felt heavy, and from the smell, Conrad could already tell it would be the same stale turnip bread they had been choking down for weeks.

  As they made their way back toward the trucks, Conrad noticed movement near the command building. The door opened, and two soldiers stepped out, their MP40s slung ready. A third followed, leading a man by the shoulder. The prisoner’s head was covered with a burlap sack, his hands bound behind him, and a short rope tied his ankles just enough to hobble his stride. A borrowed German overcoat hung loose from his shoulders, and beneath it, Conrad saw the faint tattered green of another uniform.

  It was the man the Sturmwolfe had brought.

  Even through the sack and restraints, the stiff limp as he favored one leg. Something about him radiated danger. There was coiled energy in his posture, a presence that made the air feel a little colder.

  Conrad’s pulse quickened. He knew they were supposed to transport the prisoner to Luckau, where he would be taken to God knows where. He glanced at Karl, who was watching with hesitant curiosity in his eyes. They exchanged a look, one that shared a mutual unease. Then without a word, they quickened their pace toward the waiting truck, boots crunching in the frozen mud.

  Obergefreiter Harless and Gefreiter Bauer leaned against the tailgate of the truck, the faint glow of their cigarettes cutting through the gray light. Wisps of smoke curled into the damp air, vanishing quickly in the cold.

  Harless looked up as Conrad and Karl approached. A scowl forming as his eyes locked on Karl, his mouth opening, ready to deliver a tongue lashing. But the words died in his throat when the soldiers appeared from around the corner, escorting the hooded prisoner between them. Harless sighed and dropped his cigarette into the mud, grinding it beneath his heel without a word.

  As they drew near, a sharp-dressed Obersturmführer followed behind the group. Appearing from behind the building. His black coat caught the light, boots polished to a mirror shine, cap insignia glinting faintly even through the overcast gloom. The man’s expression was one of tired authority, the look of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question.

  “Stand ready,” Harless muttered quietly.

  The men straightened, boots snapping to position. Bauer flicked away his cigarette, Karl tucked his hands behind his back, and Conrad clutched his rifle tight against his shoulder.

  The soldiers led the hooded man to the tailgate, one climbing into the back, reaching down to help haul the prisoner inside. The man let out a muffled grunt of pain beneath the burlap sack, as they dragged him up and moved him to a spot by the front of the truck. Once he was seated, the soldier in the truck sat beside him, a firm hand gripping his shoulder to keep him still. The other two moved toward the cab, one lighting a cigarette with a lighter.

  The prisoner now loaded, the Obersturmführer finally turned his attention to the group gathered near the truck. His eyes swept over them with mechanical precision before giving a curt nod. “You will transport the prisoner to Luckau,” he said. His voice was cool and practiced, cutting through the clamor of engines. “Once the handoff is complete, you are permitted rest until morning. I expect your journey will take you through the evening, so you are permitted the night to enjoy yourselves.”

  He paused, raising one gloved hand in warning. “Do not abuse this privilege. You will return promptly in the morning.”

  Bauer grinned, unable to help himself. “Jawohl, Obersturmführer,” he said with a little too much enthusiasm. Harless, Karl, and Conrad quickly followed suit in a chorus of affirmation.

  The officer seemed satisfied and nodded once. “They will be expecting your arrival,” he began, but his words trailed off as a low humming filled the air.

  Everyone froze as the sound grew louder, rising in pitch until it became a steady droning vibration that Conrad could feel in his ribs. The Obersturmführer turned his head toward the eastern sky, frowning as the hum deepened into a roar.

  Shouts erupted around the square as the village seemed to come alive in a flurry of panic. Conrad looked up in shock, just in time to see black puffs of flak from the air defense guns, bursting high above the rooftops. A green shape tore through the clouds, banking hard, sunlight glinting off its fuselage before it dove toward them.

  The sight rooted him where he stood. His heart pounded so hard it hurt. The sound of the engine was unmistakable now, a howl of fury cutting through the air. White-hot tracers streaked from the plane, tearing through the sky like lightning.

  He didn’t move. He couldn’t. Frozen in place with fear.

  Then a firm hand grabbed his collar and yanked him backward. He hit the ground hard enough to knock the air from his lungs, his glasses almost falling from his face. His helmet slipped sideways as he landed in the mud beside the Obersturmführer, who stared back at him with the same wide-eyed disbelief.

  The world became noise and motion. Dirt and bits of plaster rained down, the concussive wave of the strafing run shaking the very earth. The scream of the engines rattled Conrad’s teeth in his skull as the plane roared overhead, so close it felt like it might scrape the rooftops.

  When it passed, there was only the sound of ringing ears and distant shouting. Conrad sat up, gasping, fumbling for his rifle. His hands trembling. His thoughts were scrambled, caught somewhere between what little training he had and blind terror. Should he shoot? What good would that do?

  He jumped in surprise as the village’s anti-air battery fired furiously. A thunderous, repetitive crack rolled across the square as flak shells burst above them, black smoke blooming like rotten flowers against the sky. The plane climbed away, twisting sharply as it vanished into the clouds.

  Conrad barely had time to breathe before he heard another rumble, deeper and angrier.

  He turned and saw it. Another aircraft, same as the first, dropping fast. Its cannons flashed in the distance, strings of fire cutting the air.

  The anti-air guns screamed again, the noise unbearable. A metallic symphony of death echoing across the rooftops.

  Something grabbed Conrad’s shoulder and shook hard. He turned to see the Obersturmführer’s face flushed red, his mouth moving rapidly, spittle flying with every shouted word. Conrad couldn’t hear him over the ringing in his ears, but the message was clear as the man pointed to the truck.

  Move.

  “What?” Conrad blurted, his voice barely audible over the chaos. The man scowled and practically shoved him toward the back of the truck. He stumbled, catching himself on the tailgate before slipping in the mud and hitting the ground hard. His rifle falling free from his hands where it clattered into the truck bed.

  Conrad adjusted his glasses, accidentally smearing the surface with mud. The vision over his right eye broken by dirty streaks.

  He turned to see Harless and Bauer scrambling into the back of the vehicle, Karl scrambling in after them, his face pale as chalk.

  “Go! Go! Schnell!” the Obersturmführer shouted, voice raw and furious.

  Before he could say a word, Karl grabbed his arm and yanked him upward. His grip trembled with fear. “Get in!” he barked. Conrad barely managed to haul himself up, his boots slipping as the truck jolted beneath them. The vehicle stalling.

  Inside, the air stank of diesel, sweat, and panic. The prisoner sat where they had placed him, the burlap sack still covering his head. He didn’t flinch as another burst of cannon fire screamed through the sky and tore a building clean in half. Chunks of plaster and brick slammed into the canvas roof, dust and debris raining down. He was terrified. The others were terrified, but this one sat utterly still, shoulders squared.

  Bauer shoved Conrad toward the bench opposite the prisoner. “Sit down, damn it!” he shouted, his voice cracking.

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  “We’re going? With those damn Red aircraft still in the sky?” Harless shouted over the noise.

  A thunderous explosion suddenly filled the air, something massive hitting the far side of the village. The buildings shaking in their foundations. Conrad turned just in time to see a plume of oily black smoke twisting upward, flames licking at the rooftops.

  A hard slap hit the truck’s side, the Obersturmführer’s voice cutting through the chaos. “Schnell! Drive!”

  The vehicle groaned forward, the tires spinning through the mud before finding grip. The smell of diesel thickened, mixing with the smoke and dust. Conrad’s ears rang. His vision swam. This was madness. Every instinct screamed that they were going to die here. Why would they be told to drive? It didn’t make any sense.

  Across from him, Harless clutched his submachinegun, jaw tight and face drained of color. Karl was beside him, muttering a prayer under his breath, fingers gripping a small wooden cross that hung from his neck.

  Conrad’s eyes shifted to the soldier sitting next to the prisoner. His face was drenched in sweat, his eyes blown wide with terror. He kept one hand on the prisoner’s shoulder squeezing the fabric of the grey coat. As if to steady himself.

  Then the prisoner moved.

  It was subtle, shoulders trembling at first. A faint sound rising from beneath the sack. At first, Conrad thought the man might have finally joined them in their panic. But then he heard it clearly. Low, rough, and wrong.

  Laughter.

  A chill rolled through Conrad’s body so fast he thought his heart had stopped. The hair on the back of his neck prickled beneath his collar. The sound of that laughter beneath the roar of engines and cannon fire making his blood run cold.

  The truck picked up speed, jolting violently as it bumped along the rutted road. The village fell away behind them, swallowed by smoke and fire. The scream of an engine returned, louder this time, slicing through the air above.

  Conrad turned, his eyes darting to the back of the truck. The sky was alive with movement. Flak continued bursting in black clouds, while tracer fire streaked toward the heavens. Then came the heavy thud of cannon fire, and the world behind them erupted.

  The explosions hit close. The road behind them splitting open, dirt and debris spraying across the truck bed. The air shuddered as the aircraft roared overhead, its shadow flashing across them like the sweep of a blade.

  Conrad’s mouth went dry. His stomach churned as the truck slammed over a rut in the road, the jolt throwing him half out of his seat. He barely caught himself, his boots scraping against the floorboards. “I don’t want to die!” he shouted before he could stop himself. The words tumbled out, torn raw from his throat.

  The soldier beside the prisoner staggered, nearly losing his footing as the vehicle bucked. He lurched forward, slamming his fist against the back of the cab. “Faster, you fools!” he screamed, voice cracking. His boots slipped as the truck veered again, throwing him against the sideboard.

  Harless cupped his hands to his mouth. “Stop the truck!” he shouted toward the cab, panic rising sharp in his tone. “Stop the damn truck or we’re all going to die!”

  Bauer stumbled to his feet, one hand gripping the bench as if preparing to leap from the moving vehicle. His mouth opened to shout something, but the whine of the plane’s engines drowned everything out. The sound grew higher, closer, until it clawed at Conrad’s nerves.

  He clenched his eyes shut, clutching his hands to his chest. “God, please,” he whispered, his voice shaking.

  Then the world tore open.

  A hideous ripping noise filled the air, sharp and metallic. White-hot bursts of light streaked through the truck’s canvas sides. The bullets punched through wood, steel, and flesh with the same brutal rhythm. Conrad saw the soldier in front of him, practically vanishing in an explosion of red. Blood and bits of flesh spattered the walls around him.

  The truck suddenly veered sharply left, wheels sliding in the mud. The world reducing to noise and motion. Then the vehicle began to tip as it left the road and bounced down an embankment.

  Harless screamed, as the truck began to roll. Conrad looked up just in time to see the him flung sideways. The Obergefreiter reached out, grasping at air, eyes wide with panic.

  Then everything went weightless.

  The truck slammed onto its side with a crash that shook the air. The impact drove the breath from Conrad’s lungs. Something heavy landed on his chest, and his head struck the wooden panel behind him with a sickening crack. Light bursting behind his eyes.

  For a moment there was nothing but ringing. High, steady, and endless. The world outside was gone.

  Conrad gasped for breath, feeling a weight on his chest shift. He blinked hard, trying to force the world back into focus. Harless lay sprawled across him, coughing and groaning, his face pale under a layer of grime. The Obergefreiter rolled aside, clutching his ribs and spitting blood.

  Conrad tried to sit up but fell back with a groan. The world spinning.

  His vision cleared just enough for him to take in the wreckage. The truck’s side was ripped open, canvas flapping like torn skin in the wind. Bits of gore and blood clung to the walls, dripping down in slow, sticky trails.

  Conrad swallowed hard, bile burning the back of his throat. Then he saw movement.

  A figure shifted near the cab, half-hidden by torn canvas. At first, Conrad thought it must have been the soldier guarding the prisoner. The man wearing a now tattered gray coat, his shoulders hunched. Then he saw the hands, rope loose over the man’s wrists as he worked furiously at the bindings holding his ankles. Then the man straightened, as the restraints came off.

  And the burlap sack over his head was pulled free.

  A single eye glared through the dim light, wild and bloodshot, cutting straight into Conrad like a blade.

  Harless stiffened, realization dawning on his face. His hand groped blindly for the submachine gun he had dropped.

  The prisoner’s eye snapped toward him.

  He moved so fast Conrad almost didn’t see it. One heartbeat he was crouched on the floor, the next he was across the truck, colliding with Harless in a blur of motion. The greycoat over the mans shoulders flying free.

  The impact knocked the weapon spinning across the floorboards.

  A sound tore from the prisoner’s throat. Low, guttural, almost inhuman.

  Conrad froze where he lay, his pulse hammering. He couldn’t move. Could barely breathe.

  All he could do was watch as the one-eyed man pinned Harless to the wrecked floor, the growl rising to a furious roar that swallowed every other sound around them.

  Conrad tried to push himself upright, but the world swam and burst into stars. His head thudded back against the side of the overturned truck. His vision pulsed in and out of focus, every sound muffled and distant, as if coming through water. He groaned and turned his head to the side.

  Harless was screaming. Not in fear, but in rage, his voice hoarse and desperate. The Obergefreiter was on his back, fists hammering wildly against the prisoner’s arms as the man straddled him. Veins bulged across the prisoner’s forearms, tendons taut like wire as he fought to pin Harless’s throat. Their boots kicked against the walls of the overturned truck.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Conrad saw Bauer stirring. Blood ran down the side of the Gefreiter’s face, bright red against the gray dirt smeared on his skin. His eyes widened as he took in the scene.

  The prisoner’s head suddenly snapped between Harless and Bauer. Then, a low, guttural laugh bubbled from beneath the man’s breath. It rose in pitch, sharp and manic, echoing inside the wrecked truck.

  Before Conrad could comprehend it, the prisoner’s head lunged down.

  Harless’s scream tore through the air. It was high and raw, the sound of a man being ripped apart. Conrad froze as the scream cut short, replaced by a horrible wet sound. His mind refused to believe what his eyes were seeing until he heard it again. A savage tearing noise, muffled and wet.

  The prisoner was tearing into Harless’s throat with his teeth.

  Conrad’s stomach turned as Harless’s legs kicked and spasmed. His fingers clawing at the man as his own blood began to splatter the boards. Then came one last convulsion and a sound like fabric ripping. Harless going limp.

  Bauer was shouting something. Conrad couldn’t hear what. The Gefreiter’s face twisted between terror and disbelief. He stumbled in the wreckage, searching the floor desperately. His hand brushed a rifle lying beside Karl, who was beginning to stir, groaning weakly.

  Bauer grabbed for the weapon, but the strap caught on Karl’s arm. The young soldier blinked, disoriented. “What…” he began, but the word never finished.

  The prisoner stood.

  He wiped a hand across his mouth, smearing blood across his cheek. Harless’s body twitching at his feet. The prisoner’s chest rose and fell with deep, shuddering breaths. His single eye burning like a coal in the dim light.

  In one fluid motion, he lunged forward and drove his fist into Bauer’s cheek. The sound was like a hammer hitting meat. Bauer’s head snapped to the side, and he flew backward out of the truck, landing hard in the mud.

  Karl was sitting up now, his face pale and streaked with blood. His eyes locked on the prisoner and widened with pure terror. He scrabbled at his jacket, drawing the knife he had stolen earlier. His hands shook as he slashed wildly.

  The prisoner’s lips peeled back in a sneer twisting aside, the blade missing his leg by inches. Then the man dropped suddenly, driving his knee into Karl’s chest with brutal force. The boy gasped and fell back, the wind leaving his lungs in a choked whimper.

  Karl tried again, bringing the knife up, but the prisoner caught his wrist in a crushing grip.

  The man’s gaze flicked to the weapon, then to Karl’s face.

  “That’s mine,” he said in rough German, his voice low and venomous.

  He ripped the blade free and turned it in his palm. Karl’s lips moved in soundless pleading, his body trembling.

  Then the knife came down.

  Once. Twice. Again, and again. Each thrust was savage, mechanical, filled with fury. Blood splattered the walls and pooled across the floor. Karl’s body jerked with each blow until it finally went still.

  Bauer was on his feet now, swaying, a bayonet clutched in his hand. His face was ghost-white, but his jaw was set in grim resolve.

  The prisoner turned toward him slowly and then coiled.

  Bauer lunged with a desperate shout, the bayonet flashing. The man slipped aside, catching Bauer’s arm in a twisting hold. The motion was sharp, practiced. There was a snap, followed by Bauer’s gasp of pain. The prisoner drove his fist into Bauer’s throat. The Gefreiter choked, staggering back, clutching at his neck.

  The prisoner seized him by the coat and spun, hauling him effortlessly over his shoulder. Bauer landing with a heavy thud that rattled the truck.

  Then the knife came down again.

  Conrad screamed. He didn’t even know when he started. His voice cracked and broke, drowned out by the wet, rhythmic sounds of the blade rising and falling. He tried to push himself up, but his body wouldn’t obey. The world was spinning, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

  He fell back, staring up at the canopy above. Light shone through the holes the cannon fire had torn, flickering across his face. The smell of iron, smoke and blood was thick in the air.

  There was a grunt, followed by a gurgling sound that turned Conrad’s stomach.

  He began to shake uncontrollably. He didn’t want to look. He wanted to close his eyes and pretend none of this was real.

  But he forced himself to turn his head anyway.

  Conrad finally saw him clearly for the first time.

  The man stood in the center of the overturned truck, framed in the gray light that filtered through torn canvas. His chest heaved with each breath, the sound rough and uneven, like an animal dragging air through its lungs. His body was slick with blood. His own and everyone else’s. Smeared across his arms, chest and face in dark streaks. Steam curled faintly from him in the cold air.

  The man’s single green eye locked onto him. It burned with a sharp, terrible focus that rooted Conrad where he lay. As the man’s head turned slightly, the other side of his face now visible. It was a ruin of scar tissue, twisted and raw, and a deep black hollow where an eye should have been. The sight of it made Conrad’s stomach twist.

  He couldn’t breathe. His lips trembled as he tried to form words that wouldn’t come. His heart thudded against his ribs so violently he thought it might burst. A low, broken sound escaped his throat. A noise that didn’t sound human at all.

  The man’s mouth curled into a sneer. His chest still rising and falling in shallow, trembling bursts, the muscles in his jaw working as if he were trying to swallow the rage still coursing through him.

  Conrad’s bladder gave out. Warmth spread through his trousers as a dark stain blossomed across the fabric. He stared down at it in disbelief, horror clawing up his spine. He could smell the acrid stench rising in the cold air, and the shame of it almost burned worse than the fear.

  The man’s boot scuffed against the floorboards as he began limping toward him. Each step was heavy, deliberate. Conrad’s breath finally came but in short, sharp gasps, his chest hitching with every one.

  The man loomed over him now, shadow stretching across Conrad’s trembling form. He crouched, one knee popping audibly as he bent down. His green eye glinted like a shard of glass in the dim light.

  He looked at Conrad’s-soaked trousers and gave a quiet, humorless huff through his nose. The faintest trace of a grin tugged at his blood-smeared mouth.

  The man looked back at Conrad with an almost amused expression.

  “Go back to your momma, boy,” he said in German, his voice a rough growl.

  Conrad flinched at the sound of it. The tone was hollow and raspy, and grated against his ears.

  The man reached toward him. Conrad squeezed his eyes shut, expecting the end. Expecting the knife, or even teeth. His whole body tensed, every muscle locked.

  Instead, the man’s hand closed around the rifle resting beside him. The metal clinked softly against the floorboards as he lifted it.

  Conrad dared to open his eyes again. The man was standing now, testing the rifle’s weight in his hands. He worked the bolt, ejected each cartridge with quick, practiced motions, the spent rounds clattering to the wood below. Once the magazine was empty, he let the weapon fall carelessly to the side.

  It hit the floor with a dull thud that practically boomed in the confined space.

  The man turned and began limping away, stopping beside Harless’s mangled body, then moved to Karl’s. The young soldier’s face was barely recognizable, a crimson ruin beneath the torn uniform. The man crouched, rummaged through the bloodied jacket, and found what he was looking for. The leather sheath for the knife.

  He wiped the blade clean on Karl’s coat with slow, methodical strokes. Then he slid it into the sheath, tucking it to his belt, and stood again. His shoulders rose and fell with effort as he pulled a submachine gun from the floor, slinging it across his back.

  Conrad watched, paralyzed, as the man stepped toward the edge of the overturned truck. The green eye caught a glint of light as he glanced back once over his shoulder, unreadable. Then he turned and limped away, disappearing from view.

  The distant crackle of flames and the groan of metal filled the silence he left behind.

  Conrad let his head fall back against the splintered boards. His breathing came in short, ragged bursts. He could taste iron on his tongue. Tears welled in his eyes and spilled down his dirt-streaked cheeks while body trembled uncontrollably.

  He suddenly heard the metallic groan of the truck’s door wrenched open, the hinges protesting with a drawn-out squeal. The sound made Conrad flinch, his body tensing instinctively. A heartbeat later came the familiar, dreadful chatter of a submachine gun. Short, sharp bursts that echoed through the air. The noise was only partly muffled by the torn canvas of the truck.

  Then came silence, heavy and absolute, broken only by the faint ticking of cooling metal.

  Conrad swallowed hard, shifting slightly trying not to breathe too loudly. His boot brushed against something. Then he froze when he heard a faint, wet gurgle

  His eyes snapped downward.

  Harless lay sprawled before him, chest barely rising. The man’s eyes were half-open, blood pooling in the hollow of his throat. His lips trembled as if trying to form words, but only a wet rasp came out.

  “Mein Gott…” Conrad whispered, his voice shaking. He rolled on his side, torn between crawling away and helping.

  Harless’s hand twitched once, groping blindly toward Conrad before falling still. His eyes rolled back slightly, the last flicker of life fading from them. Conrad sat there, staring at the dying man’s face.

  He drew in a shallow breath, the taste of iron and smoke burning in his throat. Outside, footsteps once again crunched in the dirt. The sound of the man’s limp and the scrape of his boots grew fainter, as he moved away from the wreck.

  Emmett limped away from the wreckage, every movement sharp and uneven, like a machine running on broken parts. He could feel the warm sting of blood drying on his skin and the ache in his ribs pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Behind him, the overturned truck smoked faintly in the morning light, its shattered frame lying crooked beside the road like the corpse of some great animal.

  He half stumbled, then stooped, fingers fumbling inside the pocket of his trousers until his numb fingertips closed on something familiar. He drew it free and held it up as if it were a small talisman. The eyepatch lay in his palm, the leather dark and creased, the strap frayed. Stabsarzt Krüger had tucked it into his trousers when he patched him up. A practical mercy that Emmett had not asked for and had been too stubborn to thank for.

  The sight of it steadied him more than he expected.

  He brought it up and smoothed the patch against the hole in his face, hooked the strap behind his head and cinched it down until it sat snug over the raw socket. The leather bit into his skin, cold and honest, and for a moment the world narrowed to the small, relieved order of the motion. He shook his head chuckling and picked absently at a strip of flesh stuck between his teeth and spat it into the mud. The taste of iron lingering on his tongue.

  His luck, if you could call it that had come through again in its usual cursed way. It had taken its toll, as it always did, but it had also handed him his freedom. He could almost laugh at the symmetry of it. The world always demanded its pound of flesh before letting him crawl back out of the grave.

  He grinned anyway, a dry, humorless thing that made his cracked lips sting.

  He pulled something from the pocket of the German coat and tore at the pack he had taken from the soldier. The one who had been half alive in the cab of the truck. his fingers trembling as he worked free a single tablet of Pervitin. He popped it out, ground it to dust between his teeth, and swallowed. It would be a moment before the effects took hold, but they would come.

  “Things are looking up,” he muttered.

  He turned, glancing back toward the overturned truck. Smoke rose from the wreck like black ghosts twisting in the wind. Beyond it lay the village, where faint figures moved through the haze. He squinted his remaining eye, gauging the distance. He could almost hear the shouting, the frantic barking of orders. For a brief moment, he considered going back. Someone there would know where they’d sent Eira. Someone would know where she’d gone.

  But the thought died as quickly as it came. He wasn’t that stupid. Not yet.

  He spat again, the phlegm streaked with red, and muttered to himself, “She’s not worth dying for… not yet.”

  Eira. The name crawled through his mind like a parasite. His jaw tightened, his teeth grinding until his temple throbbed. She had bested him. Outplayed him. Turned him in like a dog caught in a trap.

  That miserable bitch.

  He adjusted the strap of the helmet hanging from the handle of his knife, the metal dome bumping rhythmically against his thigh as he walked. The insult was too good for her. He laughed under his breath. “Bitch,” he said again, savoring the sound. “Hell, that’s almost literal, isn’t it?” He snorted, the faintest hint of amusement flickering behind the exhaustion. “Flea-bitten vermin is more like it.”

  He could still hear her voice in his head, cool and unshaken. I know you would have preferred if I’d killed you.

  “Damn right I would’ve,” he muttered, the corners of his mouth twitching.

  If she had put a bullet between his eyes, he couldn’t have truly hated her for it. It would’ve been clean, simple, and final. But she hadn’t. And because she hadn’t, he would make damn sure she regretted every breath she took between now and when he found her again.

  He quickened his pace, each step sending a jolt of pain up his ruined leg. The Pervitin could only carry him so far. The adrenaline was already thinning, leaving behind the deep, throbbing ache of his wounds. He stumbled once, catching himself with a sharp hiss. His entire body was a map of pain. Torn muscle, fractured ribs, half-healed cuts that burned with every breath.

  He couldn’t go far like this. Not without help.

  He needed a new plan.

  He pulled the helmet from his knife’s handle and turned it over in his hands. The inside smelling of oil, blood, and earth. He studied the scuffed metal, then unbuckled the strap and dropped it onto his head with a grunt. It settled heavy and almost familiar.

  A grin crept across his face as an idea formed.

  “Oh, won’t you take pity on me, Fritz?” he said aloud in a mock pleading tone. “Just a poor Wehrmacht soldier. Captured. Escaped the Russians. Could you spare some aid?” His voice turned hard again. “You’ll help me, won’t you? You dumb bastards.”

  He chuckled to himself. The sound echoed flatly through the cold air. He knew what he had to do. Limp east toward the front, play the part of a broken Wehrmacht, and slip through the cracks. The Reich was stretched thin enough that between his German, and a good story he was confident they’d buy it. And when he got what he needed, medical attention, rest. Then he would begin the real work.

  He would go wolf hunting.

  The thought lit a spark deep in his chest, something feral and unhinged. He didn’t care if he lived or died anymore. Just so long as he took that white-furred mutt with him.

  He stopped in the field, tilted his head back, and drew in a deep, ragged breath. The cold air seared his lungs. Then he let out a low sound which grew into a wild, broken hoot that tore through the quiet countryside, echoing across the empty fields like a warning.