Water dripped in slow, irregular rhythms from somewhere above. The air was thick and stale, tinged with rust, sewage, and smoke that had filtered down from the dying city overhead.

  “Are we near?” Dieter finally asked, breaking the oppressive silence that had settled between them.

  Emmett grunted in response. It might have been affirmation. Or it might have been irritation.

  Dieter glanced at him, a flicker of annoyance passing over his features, but he chose not to press the matter. There was little point in forcing conversation out of a man who seemed to resent the very act of speaking. He had walked in front, his pace steady and unhurried, pausing only occasionally to withdraw the folded map from his pocket, studying it in the beam of his light before tucking it away again.

  Dieter followed several steps behind, boots splashing softly through shallow runoff. His head was held lower than usual, partly due to the low ceilings. His tail hung stiff behind him, brushing occasionally against the damp tunnel wall. He did not like this arrangement. He did not like being alone with Emmett Granger.

  He would have preferred to be at Eira’s side.

  But he had made the decision himself. He had insisted she go to the rendezvous. He had told her it was the right course. Still, as he walked, a quiet worry gnawed at him.

  She might not listen.

  He knew her well enough to understand that obedience had never been her strongest trait. For all he knew, she could be tracking them at this very moment, following their scent through the dark like some stubborn shadow. He forced the thought aside. He would trust her to do what was needed. What else could he do?

  His mind then shifted unwillingly to the square. To the look on Haller’s face as the bullets struck him.

  A flicker of anger rose in his chest at the memory of Emmett firing without hesitation. Shooting Varan down where she stood. The anger flared, but then quickly faded. The situation had spiraled out of control in seconds. If Emmett had not acted, he and Eira might have been lined up against a wall by now. Executed as traitors.

  Dead like Varan. Dead like Haller.

  At the thought of Haller, another memory surfaced. The letter. The communique Emmett had shown them. The one Haller had torn from his hands. Without thinking, Dieter’s hand went to his pocket. His fingers pressed against the empty fabric inside, confirming what he already knew.

  He let out a quiet huff of frustration.

  “That communique you showed us,” he said at last, his voice low in the echoing tunnel. “Oberleutnant Haller had it when he died.”

  Emmett did not stop walking.

  “And why,” he asked without turning, his tone flat but edged with something dangerous, “did he have it?”

  Dieter straightened slightly.

  “Because we presented it to him,” he replied evenly. “To show him why we wished to convince the others to come with us.”

  Emmett let out a dry, humorless sound.

  “Fat lot of good that did.” He shook his head faintly. “Let me guess. He already knew about it. Didn’t he.”

  Dieter exhaled slowly, then after a moment nodded hesitantly. “Ja. He did.”

  “Are you surprised?” Emmett asked, finally glancing back over his shoulder. The look in his single green eye was sharp. Assessing.

  Dieter did not answer. The silence spoke for him.

  Emmett gave a small nod, as if satisfied.

  “Far as I know,” he continued, turning his attention forward again, “most of the Sturmwolf leadership was briefed. Or at least given enough hints to piece it together.”

  Dieter’s ears twitched slightly.

  “And the letter?” he pressed. “If Haller had it when he died, then it is gone.”

  Emmett shrugged one shoulder.

  “Luckily for you,” he said, “I have more than one copy.”

  Dieter absorbed that without comment. It did not surprise him. Emmett struck him as a man who prepared for contingencies. A man who trusted no one and nothing but his own foresight. They moved forward in silence again, boots scraping lightly against damp concrete. The tunnels narrowed, then widened again. Pipes ran overhead, some hissing faintly with steam.

  Dieter’s thoughts returned to the larger problem. “How are we to warn those already engaged in combat?” he asked finally. His tone was almost weary. “Do you have any idea?”

  Emmett did not slow.

  “Haven’t the foggiest,” he replied with equal lack of enthusiasm. “As I recall, this was your idea. Yours and that sister of yours.”

  They reached a rusted iron ladder bolted into the wall, descending into a deeper shaft of darkness. Cold air drifted upward from below.

  Emmett stopped beside it and jerked his thumb toward the opening. “After you, Dieter.”

  The hybrid regarded Emmett for a brief, tense moment before stepping onto the iron rungs. His sharp eyes narrowing in silent calculation. Without another word, he turned and descended the ladder. Despite his size, his movements were controlled and efficient, claws scraping lightly against the cold metal as he climbed down into the dark.

  Emmett followed a second later, boots clanging against the rungs. He muttered something under his breath that might have been a curse, the sound swallowed by the hollow shaft as he descended after him. They reached the bottom and stepped into ankle deep runoff. The air was thick and damp. Water dripped steadily from unseen cracks overhead, each drop echoing with an irritating persistence that made the tunnels feel smaller than they were.

  Emmett took the lead again without being asked. His boots splashed through shallow puddles as he moved through the labyrinth with a familiarity that suggested a long time spent in these tunnels. The beam of his light cut across brick and slime coated walls. Every few turns he gestured sharply or barked directions over his shoulder.

  “Left,” Emmett said curtly, voice rebounding faintly off the slick walls. “And watch your step. These walkways get slippery.”

  Dieter grunted once in acknowledgment. His golden eyes swept the shadows constantly, scanning alcoves and side passages. All the while the city above trembled occasionally, sending faint dust and moisture trickling from the ceiling.

  “You’ve been living down here?” Dieter asked after a moment, his voice low and edged with disbelief.

  “Yeah,” Emmett replied without turning. “It’s cozy once you get past the smell.”

  Dieter let out a short huff of acknowledgement.

  They moved through a broader cistern where the water pooled deeper, then skirted around a hulking pump station that loomed like some rusted mechanical beast. Behind it, half concealed by pipes and shadow, was a small metal door.

  Emmett produced a key without comment and unlocked it. The hinges groaned in protest as it swung open. Beyond lay a narrow passage that forced Dieter to angle his shoulders slightly as he walked. The smell shifted gradually as they moved deeper. It was still unpleasant, but less overpowering.

  Eventually the passage widened into a cramped alcove carved into the underground. The walls were lined with maps pinned haphazardly into damp brick. Notes and scraps of paper overlapped one another in layered chaos. A crude wooden table sat in the center, its surface cluttered with documents, ammunition, a disassembled pistol, and several scavenged supplies. In one corner of the floor, a dark stain marked the concrete. Its edges were crusted and long dried.

  Dieter’s nose wrinkled, ears flattening slightly.

  “Smells like scheisse,” he muttered, voice low. He inhaled again, slower this time. “And blood.”

  Emmett shoved past him and moved to the table.

  “What can I say?” he replied dryly, dropping a stack of folded maps with a dull thud. “The maid is out.”

  Dieter’s gaze drifted upward noticing a rat perched on a narrow ledge, chewing methodically on something pale and ragged. Bits of skin clung stubbornly to the flesh as its teeth worked. The hybrid stared for a moment as recognition settled in. He inhaled again and caught the faint, sweetly sour edge of decay beneath the damp air.

  He did not comment on it. Instead, he turned his attention back to Emmett.

  “Who are you?” Dieter asked suddenly.

  Emmett did not look up at first. He was already spreading maps across the table, smoothing them with a gloved hand.

  Dieter stepped closer, towering beside him with deliberate calm.

  “You are not simply a soldier. That much is obvious,” Dieter continued. “I would say some form of commando. But that does not quite fit either.”

  Emmett glanced up at him at last. His expression was flat, unimpressed.

  “As you said,” he answered, voice clipped, before returning his focus to the map.

  Dieter stared at him for another heartbeat before leaning over the table.

  “Just so we are clear,” he said, tone low and deliberate. “I do not trust you. And I do not like you.”

  A faint smirk tugged at Emmett’s mouth.

  “You and everyone else,” he replied casually, eye still tracing lines on the paper.

  “Understand this,” Dieter went on smoothly. “We are only seeking your help because there is no other option.”

  Emmett’s expression darkened slightly at that. He glanced up again, this time holding Dieter’s gaze. “I thought that was already made painfully apparent,” he said before jabbing a finger sharply at the map.

  “Focus. First squad is supposed to be in this area. About an hour’s trip if we move quickly. If we keep underground most of the way. After that we pivot south and try to intercept the second group near the rail lines. We’ll need to confirm their locations and have some excuse for trying to speak with them.” He began tracing the route with a blunt fingertip.

  Dieter did not look down. Instead, his gaze remained fixed on Emmett’s face. Lingering on the scars and the eyepatch.

  “One of my kind did that to you, yes?” Dieter asked quietly, gesturing toward the eyepatch.

  The reaction was subtle at first. His shoulders tightened. The muscles in his jaw flexed once, hard enough that Dieter could see it beneath the stubble and scar tissue. His fingers, which had been resting flat against the map, curled slightly as though he were gripping something unseen.

  For a heartbeat the only sound in the cramped alcove was the steady drip of water from the tunnels beyond.

  “How is that important right now?” Emmett asked at last. His voice was low. Not raised. Not explosive. Dangerous in a different way. Controlled.

  Dieter did not look away. His posture remained tall, unyielding, golden eyes fixed steadily on the ruined side of Emmett’s face.

  “It is important,” Dieter replied evenly, “because I need to know what kind of man I am working with.”

  Silence again.

  Emmett’s eye flicked once to the map, then back to Dieter. Something ugly moved behind the green iris. He shoved away from the table abruptly, the underside of his boots scraping harshly against the concrete.

  “Yeah,” he snapped. “One of your kind did this to me.”

  He gestured sharply toward the eyepatch, the motion abrupt and almost contemptuous.

  “So you can trust I am not here to save you bunch,” he continued, voice hard. “My motivations are completely selfish.”

  The words hung in the damp air between them. Dieter studied him for a long moment, his expression almost thoughtful.

  “Such a situation I find myself in,” Dieter said quietly.

  Emmett let out a humorless huff.

  “Yeah,” he shot back. “The situation is a real peach.”

  He stepped back to the table and jabbed a finger at the map with renewed force, the paper crinkling under his glove. “Now, can we focus for two goddamn minutes?”

  Dieter’s gaze lingered on him a second longer. Measuring him and weighing the admission. Emmett had not denied it. Had not softened it. There had been no attempt to disguise the resentment in his voice.

  Slowly, Dieter shifted his attention down to the map.

  His jaw tightened, but he inclined his head once.

  “Fine,” he said curtly. “You said the first squad is here?”

  Emmett exhaled sharply through his nose and dragged his finger across the paper to a circled section.

  “Yeah. Here,” he said. “About an hour if we keep moving and do not get pinned topside. We stay under as long as we can. Surface only if we have to.”

  His finger traced a narrow route through sewer corridors and intersections.

  “We reach them, explain the situation, move them west. Fast. After that we pivot south and try to figure out where the second group is. Hopefully they aren’t already swallowed by whatever command shoves them into.”

  Dieter leaned closer to the table now, studying the route with genuine focus. The earlier tension had not vanished, but it had shifted. Redirected.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Somewhere far above them, Berlin shook again as artillery thundered.

  Dieter slammed his back against the brick wall as rounds snapped past the corner and pelted the wall beside him. Chips of brick and mortar rained down across his helmet and shoulders, stinging where they struck exposed fur and the back of his hands.

  “Scheisse!” he barked, voice raw and furious.

  He rose just enough to thrust the MP40 over the edge of the broken wall and squeezed the trigger without aiming, stitching a wild burst down the narrow alley. The weapon bucked in his grip, spent casings clattered against the pavement and rolled toward the gutter as he forced their pursuers to find cover.

  Across from him, Emmett worked like a man possessed.

  The manhole had been buried beneath rubble from a collapsed facade. Brick, splintered beams, chunks of plaster. He and another Sturmwolf had been tearing at it with bare hands while Dieter bought them seconds they did not have.

  Sweat ran down Emmett’s temple and into the collar of his jacket as he dropped to a knee and heaved aside the last slab of broken masonry. Finally freeing the circular iron cover.

  “Move, damn it,” he muttered, jamming the pry bar beneath the lip. He leaned his weight into it. The metal groaning as it began to rise. The hybrid beside him crouched, dug thick claws under the edge as soon as there was enough space and with a violent grunt hauled the cover sideways. It scraped across stone and exposed the dark shaft below.

  “Clear!” Emmett barked, jerking his chin toward Dieter.

  Dieter emptied the remainder of his magazine in a final sweeping burst, forcing the SS soldiers at the far end of the alley to dive back behind shattered vehicles and doorframes. The bolt snapped forward after firing the last round and went quiet. He began backing toward the open manhole, boots sliding over loose grit.

  Emmett pulled a grenade from his belt, twisted the base cap free and yanked the pull string in one smooth, violent motion. Without pausing, he rose just enough to arc it over the brick wall that had sheltered Dieter.

  Dieter spared a single glance toward the alley mouth.

  One of the Schutzstaffel troops had stepped forward at the wrong moment. The soldier’s eyes went wide as he tracked the small, dark object tumbling toward him. His mouth opened in a panicked shout.

  “Granate!”

  Dieter turned and dropped into the shaft, boots finding the first rungs of the ladder as shouts erupted overhead. He descended fast, claws scraping iron. A heartbeat later, the explosion detonated and the alley convulsed. Dust and debris cascaded down the shaft as the blast thundered above them. The ladder shuddering in Dieter’s grip.

  Emmett dropped through the opening immediately after him, boots striking the rungs hard. He descended only two steps before bracing himself and reaching upward.

  “Hold!” he snapped.

  Dieter halted midway down the ladder, gripping the rails while smoke drifted through the open shaft, acrid and bitter. Emmett reached over and began to drag the manhole cover back in place. His jaw clenched as he strained, metal scrapping against brick until it was almost in place but left slightly ajar.

  “Grenade!” he barked, thrusting a hand downward without looking.

  Dieter’s hand yanked it free from his belt and shoved it upward into Emmett’s waiting palm before he dropped the last few feet, his boots slapping against the damp ground. He ripped a fresh magazine from his pouch and slammed it into the MP40. The bolt snapped back with a metallic clack as he opened the bolt, breathing heavily through his teeth.

  Above him, Emmett worked with calm efficiency. He twisted the base cap free from the second grenade and drew a length of coarse line from inside his coat. His fingers moved fast despite the tremor from exertion. He tied the cord to the pull string, cinching it tight before he jammed it into the narrow space between the ladder rails and the sewer wall, wedging it so it would remain in place.

  Through one of the small drainage holes in the manhole cover he fed the line upward, threading it through a second hole nearby. He pulled the slack down and tied it off to a rung of the ladder, adjusting the tension.

  “Almost,” he muttered.

  He wrapped additional line around the rung, securing the grenade firmly so it would not slip free.

  If the cover was dragged open, the line would snap taut and activate the explosive.

  “Even if they see the damn thing, it’ll buy us a little time while they deal with it!” Emmett snapped as he dropped the final distance from the ladder and hit the tunnel floor in a crouch.

  The three of them tore down the sewer corridor at once.

  Dieter reached to his chest and thumbed the small lamp mounted to the strap of his gear. The beam flickered to life, cutting a narrow white path through the dark as he pushed ahead. Boots slapping through stagnant water as the light danced wildly with each stride.

  Behind them came shouting.

  Angry. Frantic. The metallic scrape of the manhole being shifted, followed by a chorus of curses.

  They had found it.

  Dieter risked a glance over his shoulder seeing Emmett was digging into a canvas satchel slung at his side. He pulled free a small cylindrical device, dull metal, with two prongs jutting from the top at opposing angles.

  Dieter recognized it immediately as a mine.

  Emmett did not slow. He gripped it tightly and sprinted past Dieter, then suddenly skidded to a halt at a narrow choke point where the tunnel constricted around a jutting support pillar. He crouched and shoved the device into a shadowed recess at the base of the wall, partially concealed by broken brick and slime coated pipework.

  Dieter did not wait to watch. He and the rescued Sturmwolf continued forward, boots pounding as they rounded the next corner. Only when they reached it did they slow. Dieter pressed his back against the wall, remaining upright with the MP40 angled toward the bend. The other hybrid dropped to one knee beside him, weapon raised, chest heaving as he tried to steady his breathing.

  Boots pounded in the sewer The echoes multiplied in the confined space, making it impossible to judge distance.

  Then Emmett burst around the corner a heartbeat later.

  “Move! Schnell!” he barked, voice sharp and commanding.

  The sound of pursuit was almost on top of them now.

  Dieter did not argue. He slung the MP40 over his shoulder in one fluid motion and yanked the strap tight so the weapon bounced securely against his side. He loosened the strap of his helmet just enough to jam his fingers beneath it and clamp his hands over his ears. He then opened his mouth wide.

  For a brief second the only sound was his own ragged breathing and the violent pounding of his heart.

  Then the world detonated.

  The shockwave roared down the tunnel like a living thing. It struck his back with brutal force, driving air from his lungs and shoving him forward a half step. Heat and pressure rippled through the corridor. The blast carried with it an acrid, metallic stench that burned his nostrils and eyes. Dust and fragments rained down from above. Small chunks of brick tore loose from the ceiling and shattered against the walkway or splashed into the filthy water beside it.

  Dieter staggered but did not fall. He forced air back into his lungs and tightened the strap of his helmet again. Behind them the explosion continued to echo, rolling and rebounding in diminishing waves.

  Then came the screaming.

  High. Raw. Animalistic. The sound scraped down the tunnel in pursuit of them.

  Dieter did not look back. He fixed his eyes on Emmett, who was driving deeper into the labyrinth without hesitation. The rescued Sturmwolf followed close behind Dieter, breathing hard, boots slipping occasionally on the slick surface.

  They ran through a series of sharp turns, ducking beneath low pipes, splashing across narrow crossings. Emmett led them with grim certainty, choosing paths without pause.

  Only after they had put some significant distance between themselves and their pursuers did he finally slow. He braced one hand against a damp brick wall and bent slightly at the waist, drawing in steady breaths as sweat ran down his temple. He glanced at Dieter first, then at the other hybrid.

  “We’ve probably lost them,” he said flatly. “Hopefully.” The word carrying no optimism.

  His gaze lingered on Dieter for a second longer before he straightened and wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. He pulled the folded map free once more and glanced at it under the faint beam of Dieter’s light.

  “We need to get our bearings,” he continued. “Find a street access. Then we move.”

  His voice trailed off. His attention had shifted to the Sturmwolf who had drifted several paces away and leaned heavily against the slime streaked wall. His broad shoulders were hunched. His breathing came in uneven pulls, almost shaking. Both arms were wrapped tightly around himself as though holding himself in place.

  Dieter felt the shift in the air immediately. He stepped toward him slowly, boots softly scraping against the ground. The tunnel seemed smaller in the silence that followed. Only distant drips and the faint settling of debris broke it.

  He stopped in front of the hybrid.

  “Woutan,” he said softly. The other Sturmwolf did not respond at first. His ears were pinned flat against his skull. His expression was hollow. Haunted.

  Dieter swallowed and reached out, resting a firm hand on his shoulder.

  “I am sorry for the others, Woutan,” he said quietly, feeling the tension in the hybrid’s muscles beneath his palm.

  Woutan nodded slowly. He cleared his throat as though forcing something down. “Ja,” he said at last, his voice rough but steady. “As am I.”

  He looked between Dieter and Emmett for a moment longer before straightening from the wall. His shoulders rolled back, though the tension had not left him. It simply settled deeper. Dieter withdrew his hand, but his thoughts were already turning back to the disaster that had unfolded less than an hour ago.

  They had found the unit. That alone had felt like a small miracle in a city collapsing in on itself. They had managed to isolate Woutan privately, pulling him aside behind the shattered remains of a tram depot. At first, he had been horrified by what Dieter had suggested.

  Leave.

  Abandon Berlin. Abandon the Reich. The very idea had struck him like an insult.

  Then they showed him the letter.

  He could still see the shift in Woutan’s expression as his golden eyes scanned the lines. The confusion first. Then disbelief. Then something far worse.

  Understanding.

  It had not taken long after that.

  Conviction had replaced resistance. Woutan had insisted that the others in his attached Sturmwolf squad needed to see it as well. He had spoken with urgency, with the desperate clarity of one who suddenly understood the ground beneath him was collapsing.

  Emmett had been adamantly opposed.

  Dieter remembered the look in the one-eyed man’s face when Woutan made the request. The calculation. The irritation. The barely concealed impatience. After a brief, heated exchange, they had agreed on conditions. Quiet. Controlled. No mass announcement. One at a time.

  It had unraveled almost immediately.

  One of the Sturmwolfe had faltered. Fear or loyalty had overridden reason. He had slipped away and alerted the attached Schutzstaffel squad before they could do anything. The shift from conversation to chaos had been instantaneous.

  Dieter remembered the first shout, then the crack of gunfire. They had tried to pull back. Tried to scatter. Two of the hybrids who had agreed to come had been cut down. Dieter could still see one of them falling forward, claws scraping uselessly across broken glass as rounds tore through his back.

  But what had followed was worse.

  Far worse.

  The SS had not stopped at pursuing Dieter, Emmett, and Woutan. When the shouting began and confusion spread, someone had given an order.

  Dieter had heard it.

  Short. Sharp. Merciless.

  The SS had turned their weapons on the remaining Sturmwolfe. On hybrids who had not even drawn their weapons.

  He remembered the sound.

  Machine gun fire in close quarters. The way the reports echoed and overlapped. The way bodies dropped in succession.

  Some had tried to protest. Others had raised empty hands. It had not mattered. In that moment, any pretense of loyalty had died.

  Dieter felt his jaw tighten at the memory. The anger did not flare this time. It settled into something colder and heavier.

  They had escaped only because chaos had consumed the scene. Smoke. Screaming. Gunfire from multiple directions. Emmett had dragged him by the collar at one point, shoving him through a side exit while returning fire over his shoulder. Woutan had followed, stunned but moving. Now here they stood, three survivors in a damp sewer corridor while the weight of what had happened weighed heavily on them.

  Dieter forced the memory from his mind and turned his attention back to the present. The sewer air was thick and heavy around them, and the faint echo of distant artillery trembled through the brickwork like a warning that time was slipping away.

  He turned his gaze to Emmett for a moment. At first glance the man appeared composed. His posture was steady. His breathing had slowed. But there was something coiled beneath that calm. Dieter could see it in the tightness of his jaw and the way his fingers flexed once, unconsciously, as though wishing for his weapon.

  Dieter then focused on Woutan, gently guiding him forward down the tunnel.

  “There are others we must warn,” he said quietly. “And we are running out of time.”

  Woutan straightened immediately. The haunted look in his eyes did not vanish entirely, but it sharpened. Resolve replaced the earlier shock.

  “Ja,” he replied firmly. “And there are many more than the two of you will be able to reach in time.”

  Dieter looked at him more closely now, reading the change in his posture. “What would you suggest?”

  Woutan reached into his coat, his hands slightly trembling and withdrew a worn notepad, the edges softened by long use. From another pocket he pulled a short pencil and tapped it once against his tongue before speaking.

  “I can make my own path,” he said. “I know parts of this district well enough. If I move carefully, I can attempt to reach others on my own.”

  He flipped the notebook open, ready to write.

  “Even if I can warn only one more,” he continued, his voice steady despite the tremor that lingered beneath it, “that alone would make it worth the risk.”

  Emmett’s expression shifted slightly. The irritation that had lingered there gave way to something closer to calculation. Perhaps even approval. “Seems logical,” Emmett said flatly as he withdrew folded notes and a list from his pouch.

  Dieter glanced between them, his brow tightening.

  “If you travel alone,” he cautioned, “it may draw suspicion.”

  Woutan’s lips pulled back in a faint, sharp toothed grin.

  “I hope not to be traveling alone for long,” he replied. Then his expression sobered. “What of Friedrich Vollmer and the juveniles?” The question hung heavily in the damp air.

  Dieter’s expression hardened. “We have heard nothing,” he answered quietly. “Which is precisely why the situation is so urgent.”

  Woutan lowered his gaze briefly before giving a small nod.

  “Ack,” he muttered. “Such horrid circumstances we find ourselves in.”

  His hand with the notepad dropped to his side for a moment as the weight of it pressed in on him. Emmett stepped forward, holding out a folded sheet.

  “Here,” he said. “A list of known hybrids currently in Berlin and the units they are attached to.”

  Woutan accepted it gratefully. The beam of Dieter’s chest light caught the paper as his eyes moved quickly across the names. His brow furrowed as he scanned line after line. Then he stopped at one entry.

  “I know who I must speak with,” he murmured. Pointing at a few names on the list before jotting several notes into his notebook, quick and efficient, before handing the document back. The Sturmwolf hesitated a moment, studying Emmett openly who was crossing out the names he had pointed out.

  “Please do not take offense at this question, Hauptmann Schafer,” Woutan said at last, his tone respectful but searching. “But I must ask. Why are you helping us?”

  Dieter did not miss the way Emmett’s posture shifted. His answer coming smoothly.

  “No offense at all,” Emmett replied with an almost casual shrug. “And I understand your curiosity.”

  He brushed dust from his coat with the back of his glove, his tone confident yet measured.

  “It sits poorly with me,” he continued, “that the Reich would bring your kind into this world only to wipe it away once it becomes inconvenient.”

  He let that settle before continuing. “If I am honest, my mind has been weighing defection for some time. After hearing of the plans for your kind, I decided you deserved a chance beyond all this.”

  He said gesturing vaguely down the tunnel, as though encompassing the entire dying city above.

  Dieter listened in silence. The words were convincing. Delivered with just the right measure of controlled sincerity. It unsettled him how easily Emmett wore the lie. The confidence. The almost humble tone. Woutan, however, seemed to accept it without hesitation who stepped forward and extended his hand.

  “Thank you,” he said firmly. “Sincerely, Herr Schafer. I will admit I am terrified of what awaits us when we surrender to the Americans. But thank you. Both of you.”

  He turned to Dieter, who inclined his head once in acknowledgment. “Of course,” Dieter replied.

  Woutan swallowed and shifted back into practical thought.

  “Where will we rendezvous?” he asked. “And do you have another copy of the document?”

  Emmett nodded and withdrew a second folded sheet from the stack, handing it over without comment. Then he unfolded the map and angled his flashlight so the light fell cleanly across the paper.

  “There is a basement beneath a collapsed apartment building,” he said. “It can only be accessed through the sewers.”

  He tapped a point on the map. “Here.”

  Woutan leaned closer, committing the path to memory. He scribbled additional notes into his pad before folding it and sliding it back into his coat.

  “Hopefully,” he said quietly, “I can bring a few others.”

  He unslung his weapon and glanced down both directions of the tunnel, assessing his route.

  “Be safe, you two,” he added. “I plan on seeing you both at the rendezvous.”

  Dieter stepped forward and clasped Woutan’s shoulder. “You as well. Be careful.”

  The hybrid nodded stepping away, looking between them for another moment. Then without another word turned and walked into the branching dark. The Sturmwolf did not look back. His flashlight dwindled to a faint glow, then vanished entirely as he turned a corner and was swallowed by the darkness.

  For a moment, neither of them moved until at last, Emmett shifted first. He adjusted the strap of his stormrifle and turned without ceremony, beginning down the opposite corridor.

  Dieter cast one final glance in the direction Woutan had gone, then followed.

  They walked in silence for sometime before Dieter finally broke it. “Have you considered a career in acting?” He asked flatly once he was certain they were well beyond earshot.

  Emmett gave a short huff but did not look at him. Dieter continued anyway.

  “I truly wish I were in Woutan’s position,” he said. “To know you only as Hauptmann Schafer. He seems like a good man.”

  Emmett’s mouth twitched faintly.

  “You could always pretend,” he replied switching to English, his tone dropping into something colder. Something edged.

  They passed a side tunnel, its mouth a darker void within the larger dark. Without warning, Emmett halted mid stride.

  Dieter stiffened at once. His MP40 came up smoothly, barrel trained toward the entrance.

  “What is it?” Dieter asked in a low tone, nostrils flaring as he drew in a slow breath. He searched for scent through the damp and rot. Nothing distinct. Nothing immediate.

  The beam of his light did not waver. It illuminated slick brick, pooled water, a broken pipe jutting from the wall. Nothing else.

  Emmett exhaled and gave a faint shake of his head.

  “Nothing,” he said. A fraction too quickly. “Nothing but ghosts.”

  The words settled oddly in the air. Dieter did not lower his weapon immediately. He studied the man’s face. His expression had tightened, though whether in anger or something else was difficult to tell.

  Emmett reached into his coat and withdrew a small paper package. His movements mechanical. He worked a white tablet free and dropped it into his palm before slipping it into his mouth without comment before continuing to walk.

  Dieter hesitated a second longer at the tunnel mouth.

  He angled the light on his chest into the space, sweeping slowly from floor to ceiling. The beam revealed damp brick and drifting steam. No movement. No sound beyond distant dripping water.

  Behind him, he heard Emmett murmur something.

  The voice was low. So low that Dieter was confident Emmett didn’t want to be heard.

  “Leave me alone, Margerite.”

  Dieter turned slightly, just enough to look at him.

  For a long moment, Dieter stood at the mouth of the side tunnel.

  He listened.

  Nothing answered from the dark.

  At last, he lowered his weapon and turned back to the corridor ahead.

  He followed the one-eyed man deeper into the labyrinth, the echo of that single whispered name lingering in his mind as the sewers swallowed them once more.