Dawn broke gray and weak, a light that gave no warmth. The squad had waited the whole night in silence, watching the patrols move around the compound. Twice they almost ran into trouble, but luck and discipline kept them hidden.
When the guards changed and a short gap opened, Paul led the way. One by one, they crossed the courtyard like shadows.
A quick knife strike ended the life of a guard walking near the cellar. A wet sound came from his throat before he fell, bleeding into the dirt.
Moments later they reached the entrance. Paul pushed his shoulder against the old wooden door. With a groan, the hinges gave way, and the smell of rot and dust came out from the darkness inside.
Fischer and Weber looked at each other, swallowed hard, then followed Lang and Paul into the cellar.
The air grew colder the further the group went down. Each step echoed against the old, worn brick walls.
A faint scrape echoed from somewhere deeper in the cellar. The squad froze, listening. Dust fell from the ceiling as if warning them to move carefully.
Lang signaled with a hand, and the others crouched lower, moving silently through the narrow corridor. Shadows flickered along the walls as their lanterns swung with each cautious step.
Then, from the far end, a muffled shout broke the quiet. Chains clanked, boots shuffled.
"Seems like we're at the right address," Paul whispered, listening to the muffled screams. "Something tells me this won't be a friendly welcome."
Fischer tightened his grip on his pistol. "I don't like the sound of that," he muttered, glancing nervously at the dark corridor ahead.
Weber adjusted the grenades on his belt, his jaw tight. "Let's just get it over with," he said, his voice low but steady.
Lang crouched beside Paul, hand hovering near his knife. "Stay sharp. We move slow, we move together. One mistake, we're done."
The group moved forward slowly, measuring each step carefully.
They reached a corner. Paul pressed himself against the wall, slowly turning his head to peer around it.
For a second the corridor was nothing but shadow and the faint swing of a lantern. Then a figure rounded the turn at the same moment, a guard, eyes wide in the lantern light. They collided; both men looking at each other, surprise snapping through them.
The guard reached for his weapon, but Paul was faster. He drove his elbow into the man's chest, shoved him back against the wall, and with a single, practiced motion closed the distance. The guard made a desperate sound and Paul ended it quickly, a precise slice of the neck, a muffled gasp, and the body slumped.
Paul breathed out hard, trying to draw in more air. That had been close, way too close. He could have died in an instant, yet his instincts, Heinrich's instincs, had saved him once again.
Though it didn't matter to Paul anymore, he had accepted Heinrich's side as his own. Heinrich's instincts, values, emotions, they were all a part of him. He had acknowledged that some time ago.
A hand patted his back, bringing him back to the present. It was Lang, who motioned for Paul to move forward.
And so they did, even more alert after their surprise encounter.
Soon they reached a heavy iron door, chains rattling faintly behind it. Paul pressed his ear against the cold metal, listening. Voices, some weak, some angry, echoed from inside.
He stepped back from the door and turned to the rest of the group, giving them a knowing look.
This was their destination.
They took out their pistols, deeming safe enough to shoot, without waking up the guards above.
Lang nodded once. Paul gripped the latch and pulled. The iron door groaned and swung inward.
Lantern light spilled into the low room. Three guards stood by a table, one turning at the sound. Surprise flashed across his face, then he opened his mouth to shout.
Paul lifted his pistol, aiming quick and low. Two clean shots silenced the nearest guards before the sound could travel. The third tried to reach for his weapon, but Fischer was faster, lunching at him, knocking him off balance with a swift elbow.
Weber who covered their back, looked at the suprised prisoners. "Stay quiet," he hissed. The men in the room froze, eyes wide.
Lang moved through the rows with keys ready, unlocking the chains one by one.
Paul walked to the center, where General Sperrle sat propped against the wall, thin but alert.
"Jaeger? Lang?" Sperrle whispered, disbelief in his voice.
"General," Paul said, voice low. "We're getting you out."
Smiles spread across the other prisoners' faces. Some silently rejoiced, hugging each other, relief washing over them in the quiet cellar.
Yet there was one soldier whose face looked anything but happy. He didn't look like a man being freed from prison, he looked like he had been put there. His eyes were wide with horror, tracking every movement Paul made.
POV ???
He sat slumped against the cold stone, chains clinking when he shifted. Around him men hugged and whispered, relief soft in their voices. Lantern light threw long, nervous shadows. Paul moved through the room confidently, greeting each officer. He shouldn't have moved at all, the man thought. His face tightened as he watched every step.
He watched them. His jaw was dry.
How — how could he survive? His mind raced. General Sperrle survived, but that rookie?
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What should I do?
The American still has my family!
He said Heinrich has to disappear.
His head felt like it might explode. Thoughts swarmed: his wife on her way to the grocery store, his children running in the garden. The pictures the American showed him flashed behind his eyes.
No. I can't let them die, he thought, eyes suddenly clear. His teeth pressed together. I betrayed the Fatherland once — I can do it again.
Paul POV
Paul noticed the strange looks the man kept giving him, but he shrugged it off. Perhaps it was because he was fairly well-known in Germany. The Rhine incident, the propaganda.
A shy fan, maybe, he thought, almost amused.
Paul shifted his eyes back towards Lang, who had finished unlocking the chains. The freed officers hesitated for a moment, still shaken, but Paul's steady presence urged them onward. Fischer and Weber moved to lead the way, guiding the group toward the stairwell that would take them out of the cellar.
"We have a Spanish truck hidden outside. It can fit all of us," Lang said, walking besides General Sperrle.
"I suppose that's why the Spanish uniforms. Truly brilliant, Lang," Sperrle replied.
"Oh, that wasn't my idea, Sir. It was Obersleutnant Heinrich's idea," Lang said with a small smile.
Sperrle looked at him, surprise in his eyes. "It seems Germany will have a bright future with talents like him."
Lang nodded and they continued walking at a steady pace.
As they rounded the corner, a sudden, piercing wail cut through the air.
"Sirens!" Fischer shouted.
Heads snapped toward the sound. Someone above had noticed them.
"Move!" Sperrle yelled. The officers obeyed, fear flashing in their eyes.
Bullets tore through the hallway, clanging off stone and wood. Fischer returned fire, low and controlled, while Weber lobbed a grenade toward the doorway to suppress the advancing guards.
A deafening explosion shook the corridor, screams following immediately.
Another grenade bounced back from the wall, forcing the group to duck behind a collapsed section of stairs, dust and debris filling the air.
Continuous explosions tore through the building, destroying brick layer after brick layer, pillar after pillar. Soon, dust rained down from above, followed by chunks of stone and plaster.
Paul looked at the walls around him, then up at the ceiling, which seemed ready to collapse at any moment.
"Come on, Fischer, clear the way! We have to go — now!" he shouted.
Yet Fischer and Weber were pinned down, unable to clear a path.
Paul concentrated, moving an inch above his cover, patiently scanning for an opening. And then, one of the soldiers rose abruptly, a grenade in his hand. Paul didn't flinch. He pressed the trigger, the shot striking the soldier square in the head. The man crumpled to the ground, the grenade's pin already pulled.
Another explosion rocked the corridor, this one signaling the enemy's final effort and the complete collapse of the building. Bigger and bigger chunks of ceiling rained down, dust and stone filling the air.
The group ran up the stairs, trying to dodge the rubble and dirt raining from above. Each step was treacherous, chunks of stone cracked and fell, forcing them to duck and twist.
"Keep moving!" Paul shouted, voice barely audible over the roar of destruction. Lanterns swung wildly, casting long, chaotic shadows against the crumbling walls.
Behind him, the sound of shouts and scrambling boots echoed. Some of the freed officers struggled to keep up, panic flashing in their eyes. Paul reached out, grabbing hands one by one to pull them along.
Then came the last officer, his "fan." For a brief moment, their eyes met. Something in the man's gaze made Paul hesitate, a flicker too deliberate, too precise.
Paul stretched out his hand anyway. The man's gaze shifted, and suddenly he grabbed Paul's hand hard.
Before Paul could react, the soldier yanked him down into the darkness.
Chaos erupted around him as he fell, hitting the ground hard, head first. Beams rained down, dirt and stone crashing in masses, threatening to bury him.
Paul tried to stand, to move, but only his hand rose slightly, reaching toward the man who had pushed him.
The last bit of strength left his body. His eyes slowly closed, meeting the soldier's one final time before darkness swallowed him completely...
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