Emmett ground his teeth, his jaw clenched tight with pain and rage. The left side of his face throbbed. A deep, pulsing ache that radiated through his skull and down his neck. The cold made it worse, like needles stabbing beneath his skin. He reached into his coat out of habit, only to be reminded that they weren't there anymore.

  The pills were gone.

  His fingers pawed around the inside of his pocket. Nothing. Not even a loose tablet. Best he could figure, he lost them sometime during the mad dash from the hybrids. But hope had made him check again. They were gone, and he was paying the price.

  "Son of a bitch," he muttered, voice low and bitter.

  He pressed a handful of snow into his mouth. The cold numbed his lips, and he shivered from the cold. But sweat beaded along his scalp and trickled down his cheek. It wasn't from exertion, and it certainly wasn’t because he was hot. His hands trembled as he set down the binoculars. Withdrawal. The realization hit him like a gut punch. The shakes, the sweating, the dull ache behind his eye.

  "The fuck was in those things, Halloway?" he hissed, rubbing his temples before pulling the binoculars back up.

  Through the lenses, he scanned the Russian line ahead. Trenches reinforced with timber and sandbags snaked through the earth, dotted with crewed machine gun nests and men huddled in greatcoats. A hard position to crack.

  He wasn’t sure the hybrids would attack a fortified line like this. Then again, maybe they weren’t attacking alone. A coordinated push with Wehrmacht support? That would be just the kind of chaos Emmett could exploit.

  And maybe, just maybe he’d get lucky and freeze to death. Then it wouldn’t be his problem anymore. He thought grimly.

  He wiped sweat from his brow and packed another pinch of snow into his mouth. It didn’t help. His thoughts were already splintering, his body betraying him. He tried to focus on the past, on that night in the Vosges. Mortars hit first, then the howling things poured in, slaughtering everything that moved. It had been hell.

  But this wasn’t France. The intel suggested smaller hybrid squads operating in the East. Harassment, fear tactics. Less about winning, more about terror. Less risk to Hitler’s precious beasts.

  A series of low, distant thumps pulled Emmett out of his head. He went still. Familiar. Too familiar.

  Mortars.

  He hit the ground, flattened himself into the snow. Mouth open, ears covered. He braced as the screaming whistle of incoming rounds tore the night open.

  BOOM.

  Another. Then another. The ground shuddered beneath him. Snow and dirt exploded into the air. Shouts from the Russian line erupted all around. Someone screamed. Another round landed closer, the concussive force slamming through his bones.

  The air filled with the stink of scorched earth, acrid propellant, burning meat.

  Then, silence.

  His ears rang. He coughed and raised his head, blinking through the swirling haze. Across the no-man's-land, Russian defenders scrambled to regroup. Then, softer pops. Signal flares arcing into the sky.

  The battlefield was bathed in harsh, yellow light. Shadows danced in the trees.

  Engines roared. Emmett turned his head. Half-tracks emerged from the forest, growling as they crushed underbrush beneath their tired and treads. Mounted MG-42s opened up, red tracers slicing through the smoke. Wehrmacht infantry poured out from behind them, shouting, firing as they advanced behind their mechanical cover.

  Russian machine guns spat back. The lines lit up with a storm of gunfire. Bullets ricocheted off armor, dug into flesh, stitched across snow and mud.

  Then Emmett turned his head to the sound of a furious explosion.

  One of the half-tracks hit a mine. The left tire shredded in a blast of dirt and smoke. The vehicle listed hard, dragging itself sideways with a hideous metal groan.

  Russian fire zeroed in on the damaged vehicle, the men who were following now briefly exposed. Soldiers screamed as lead tore through them. Some tried to crawl into the bed of the truck. Some leapt behind the vehicle. Others bolted for nearby cover. Most didn’t make it.

  Emmett scanned the edges of the chaos, then froze. Movement.

  Figures moved low and fast through the darkened treeline, far outside the range of the flares. Silent. Coordinated.

  "Flank," Emmett mouthed.

  Let the armor draw the fire. Then have men come around the rear. Emmett squinted through the trees, heart momentarily quickening as he watched the flankers move. For a moment, he thought. Hoped, they might be hybrids. But as they came into clearer view, he saw the truth. Just men. Wehrmacht, moving with purpose, but lacking that predatory grace. His stomach sank in disappointment.

  He shook his head, and thought about his situation.

  He felt reasonably safe where he was. For now. Just a ghost in the trees, invisible and forgotten. He had one job. Tranquilize one of Hitler’s science experiments and drag it back to the C-47 he prayed would still be coming. He knew time was bleeding out fast, and the window to finish this was closing.

  As he debated, slipping off into the tree's he heard quick footsteps moving through the snow.

  Too close.

  He twisted, just in time to see a shape barrel through the brush. A soldier. Wehrmacht. Young. Running hard.

  The man tripped over Emmett’s outstretched leg and went down with a startled yelp, crashing face-first into the snow.

  The soldier blinked, dazed, blinking up at the treetops. Then his eyes drifted back... locking onto Emmett’s prone form just feet away.

  Emmett held his breath.

  Recognition hit the soldier’s face. His eyes widened. His mouth began to open, likely to shout.

  Emmett was on him in a second. He lunged like a coiled spring, his poncho flaring around him like wings, snow scattering from his helmet. He landed full force, driving the air from the man’s lungs.

  The soldier’s eyes went wide. He opened his mouth to shout.

  Emmett clamped a hand over it.

  The soldier squirmed, panicked.

  Emmett drew his knife.

  The blade gleamed. Sharp. Double-edged.

  He drove it between the ribs.

  A gasp. A jolt.

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  Then he pulled it free and drove it again, this time into the throat. Blood sprayed across the snow in a hot arc.

  "Damn my rotten luck," Emmett hissed, already hearing movement.

  A shot cracked. Dirt kicked up beside him.

  He rolled, off the man, laying flat to the ground, and brought up his Greasegun. Firing a short, muffled burst into the dark.

  A scream answered him.

  He didn’t wait. He bolted, snow spraying from beneath his boots.

  The tranquilizer gun bounced at his side, slapping against his thigh.

  "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" he gasped, weaving through trees.

  He heard shouting.

  Then he looked back. And his stomach dropped.

  Several soldiers had broken off and were giving chase.

  "Fuck me!" Emmett snarled.

  Rifles barked. Submachine guns rattled.

  He ran harder.

  One of these days, he thought, my luck’s gonna turn around.

  A rifle cracked.

  The bark of a tree exploded beside him, splinters tearing through the air. Emmett flinched, throwing his arms up, instinct taking over. He veered hard left just as a burst of submachine gun fire stitched across the trees.

  "Dammit!" he barked, staggering as something slammed off his helmet with a sharp metallic crack. He couldn’t tell if it was a ricochet or a glancing shot, but the impact rang through his skull like a church bell.

  Ahead, the ground dipped sharply. An incline hidden beneath the heavy snow. No time to think. He charged it.

  His boots hit the slope and immediately began to slide. The snow was deep, slick with ice underneath. He skipped, stumbled. Then gravity took hold.

  He tumbled.

  The world spun. Snow and trees blurred into streaks of motion. Something struck his shoulder, his gear tugging at him like anchors. He rolled faster, limbs flailing.

  Then, impact. Hard.

  He slammed into the bottom of the hill and sank half into the powder. For a second he didn’t move. Then his hand shot out, still clutching the Greasegun.

  He dragged himself onto his knees, heart hammering like a drum in his chest. Snow clung to his poncho, his gloves, and dirty uniform.

  Everything had gone so damn wrong.

  The thought cut clean through the fog. He spat blood and forced himself upright. His legs trembled under him. But he ran.

  Behind him, shouts rang out. Angry German voices. Boots pounding in pursuit. One of them yelped as they hit the same slope he had. Emmett allowed himself a savage grin.

  Good.

  But that bitter taste was still in his mouth.

  Running. Always fucking running. He was a man being hunted like a rabbit. His muscles screamed, lungs threatening to seize, the cold gnawing at every exposed nerve. Every step was a battle.

  He shoved past a tree and nearly lost his footing again.

  This is bullshit.

  He was alone. No backup. No support.

  Just a man with one mission. Bag a hybrid and drag it back to an airstrip, to a plane that might not even be there.

  His pace slowed slightly. Just enough to reach down, flick the pouch on his hip, and yank free a fresh magazine. He replaced the old one from the Greasegun with numb fingers, swapped it in smoothly despite the exhaustion. The old mag, still mostly full, shoved back into the pouch.

  "I’m tired of running," he muttered between gasps.

  Then he stopped. Feet skidding in the snow.

  His legs shook beneath him, but he stood tall. Poncho fluttering slightly in the breeze. The forest in front of him loomed, dark and deep and endless.

  But he didn’t look ahead like a man running anymore.

  His single green eye burned beneath the rim of his helmet.

  "I’m fucking done," he snarled.

  Oberschütze Mahler grunted as he hauled Thiel up from the snowy embankment. “On your feet,” he snapped, his voice tight with urgency. His eyes scanned the treeline with growing unease.

  Unteroffizier Brennecke reached the base of the slope, one of the few who hadn’t stumbled. Another soldier skidded in behind him, panting. “Let’s get the bastard,” Brennecke growled, waving them forward.

  Mahler practically slid down the rest of the hill, pulling his bolt back and chambering a round. Orders had come down from their officer. Pursue the lone figure seen slipping past the flank. Mahler hadn’t understood the point of chasing down one man, not in the middle of an assault. Even if he had killed two of their men. But the Russian position had already collapsed, and the decision came down fast from command. Brennecke had volunteered to lead the six-man pursuit team.

  Still, something about the whole thing gnawed at Mahler’s gut.

  They moved swiftly, the crunch of boots in snow the only sound besides their shallow breathing. Brennecke crouched suddenly, raising a clenched fist. The rest followed, spreading out behind him, taking a knee and aiming into the thick, dark forest.

  “The prints,” Brennecke murmured, pointing. “They stop.”

  Mahler frowned. He looked down, and then spotted it. One of the prints looked… off. Wider than it should’ve been. As if their target had carefully backtracked.

  Then the night lit up.

  A burst of submachine gun fire ripped the silence to shreds. Three men beside Mahler jerked violently and dropped. One fell still immediately, the other two writhed in the snow, gasping and twitching.

  “Schei?e!” Brennecke turned, spraying fire toward the muzzle flashes. Spent casings landing into the snow.

  Mahler shouldered his rifle, fired, racked the bolt, fired again. His ears rang with every report. A glint. Something arcing through the air, caught the moonlight before landing just a few feet from them.

  Grenade.

  Mahler dove. His body reacting before his brain caught up. He looked up for a moment, and saw to his shock, Thiel pulling off his helmet, placing it over the grenade, and throwing himself atop it. Mahler winced and pressed his face into the snow.

  The blast still rocked the forest. A dull boom, muffled but furious. Heat blasted from under the helmet. Bits of metal flew, but most of it stayed contained.

  Thiel was thrown to the side. Unmoving.

  “Thiel?” Mahler gasped.

  Then Brennecke rose onto one knee, MP40 at the ready, and tried to shout something. When another burst of fire cracked from a rock’s edge. Brennecke jerked back and hit the ground hard, twitching in agony.

  Mahler fired toward the cover, cycling another round, but then fire erupted to his right. He turned in time to feel something punch him in the ribs. He collapsed back, the breath torn from him.

  The world blurred. Snow, stars, trees.

  He heard boots crunching slowly through the snow.

  Mahler turned. One of the men from earlier, bleeding but defiant, lifted his rifle from where he lay. He never got the shot off. A quick burst chewed through his chest. He slumped, motionless.

  Then the figure stepped into view.

  Steam poured from his mouth as he breathed, a dark shape silhouetted by the moon. Mahler caught the glint of an eye under the helmet. The rest of the face was half hidden by the shadow cast by his helmet.

  The man raised his weapon at Mahler.

  A sudden shout. A blur. A figure tackling the figure.

  The stranger snarled, “Ah, fuck me!”

  English? He realized the man spoke in English.

  The man grabbed Thiel, just as the youth lunged with a bayonet. The stranger seized his wrist and drove a brutal punch into his jaw. Bone cracked. Thiel’s head snapped back.

  The bayonet fell to the snow.

  Mahler brought his rifle to bear, but Thiel’s limp body was thrown into him. His shot going wide.

  Mahler met Thiel’s eyes. He looked terrified.

  Then Thiel was yanked back by the hair. A flash of steel. A long knife, glinted in the cold moonlight.

  The blade slashed across his throat.

  Mahler watched in horror as the boy flailed, uselessly batting at the stranger’s leg, mouth open in a silent scream. Blood poured from his neck like a second mouth, steaming against the cold.

  Then Thiel was shoved aside like garbage.

  The stranger’s breath huffed visibly, fog curling from his lips. He turned slowly to face Mahler.

  A single, cold eye locked onto his.

  With icy sarcasm, the man muttered in clean German, “Guten Abend.”

  Mahler stared in mute horror.

  The man limped forward, picked up Mahler’s dropped rifle, and casually flung it deep into the trees.

  The numbness in Mahler’s side gave way to a fiery, gnawing pain. He groaned, teeth grit.

  The stranger glanced back at the three bodies he’d gunned down. One groaned.

  The stranger lifted his weapon with hand, and fired a burst into the groaning man. Silence followed.

  Mahler closed his eyes. Then opened them, looking to Theil where he lay in the snow.

  The young man was still. The snow around him ran red.

  The boy had jumped on a grenade.

  Mahler blinked in disbelief. For weeks, he'd pegged Thiel as soft. A conscript barely out of school, more burden than brother-in-arms. Always flinching at gunfire, asking too many damn questions. Mahler had mocked him behind his back more times than he could count.

  But in that moment, watching the boy toss his helmet onto a live grenade and throw himself over it without hesitation, Mahler saw it clearly. Thiel had more guts than most of them. Maybe more than himself. That split-second decision, that selfless, impossible choice... it had been pure courage.

  And it hadn’t mattered. It hadn’t saved them. The boy’s final act was noble, but they were still dead. All of them.

  Mahler looked away from Thiel’s body, as he heard footsteps crunching through the snow. The man was kneeling now. Closer. In the dim moonlight, Mahler got a clear look at his face. What was left of it. A leather eyepatch covered the man's left socket. Beneath it, deep, angry lines of old wounds, carved down from beneath the patch across his cheek and jaw, as if something had tried to rip that side of his face off. His right eye was sharp and cold, unblinking. Thick, dark stubble covered his jawline, not quite a beard.

  This wasn’t some wild partisan or rogue scout. This was something else entirely.

  Mahler felt the weight of that stare, and the realization sank in. This man had been through hell, and he’d made it his home.

  “See something?” the man asked mockingly in German.

  Mahler winced as the man reached out. The man chuckled as if amused, and patted down Mahler’s pockets, like checking for loose change. From one inner flap he pulled out a small package.

  “Pervitin,” The man said. Flipped it open. Pulled a tablet free and popped it into his mouth.

  Mahler wheezed.

  The man stood and looked to the treeline, listening. Then turned back.

  The strangers weapon came up. A faint whisp of steam rising from its barrel.

  The last thing Mahler saw, was a sudden muzzle flash. Then everything went black.