Page 57 of The Words Beneath the Noise

The convoy slowed as it approached the crossroads. Standard protocol: check for obstacles, confirm the route, proceed with caution.

The staff car stopped.

Rear door opened.

And there he was. Oberst Wilhelm Brandt, stepping out to stretch his legs or check his map or do whatever officers did when they thought they were safe from the war.

He was older than the photograph had suggested. Grey at the temples, lines around his eyes, the slightly soft build of a man who'd spent more time at desks than in trenches. He said something to his driver, laughed at the response, turned to survey the countryside with the casual confidence of a conqueror.

My crosshairs settled on his chest. Centre mass. Biggest target, highest probability of kill.

Breathe in. Hold. Feel the heartbeat slow, the world narrow to a single point of focus.

He wasn't a monster. Wasn't some cartoon villain twirling a moustache. He was a man doing his job, same as me. Had family somewhere, probably. People who'd mourn him when he didn't come home.

But his job was helping the Germans win. His job was coordinating signals that sent U-boats after convoys, that guided bombers to British cities, that kept the war grinding on while people like Danny died in the mud.

His job made him a target.

And my job was to pull the trigger.

Breathe out.

Squeeze.

The rifle kicked against my shoulder, familiar as a handshake. Through the scope, I watched Brandt stagger, hand going to his chest, confusion on his face in the fraction of a second before he crumpled.

Shouts from the security detail. Soldiers scrambling for cover, rifles coming up, searching for a threat they couldn't see.

I was already moving.

Rifle slung across my back, body low, sprinting through the trees toward the extraction point. Behind me, more shots rang out, wild and undirected, soldiers firing at shadows because they needed to do something and didn't know what.

Pierre appeared beside me, then Jean-Claude, both moving with the desperate speed of men who knew what capture meant.

We ran.

Through the forest, over a stream that soaked my boots, up a hillside that burned my lungs. German voices behind us, getting fainter, search parties spreading out in the wrong direction.

Art's intelligence had been perfect. The position, the timing, the escape routes. Everything exactly where it needed to be.

An hour later, we reached the secondary location: another farmhouse, another cellar, another waiting game.

Pierre handed me a flask. Water this time, clean and cold. I drank half of it in one go, hands shaking with the aftermath of adrenaline.

“Good shot,” Jean-Claude said. First words he'd spoken to me directly. “Clean. Professional.”

“That's the job.”

“You've done this before.”

It wasn't a question. He could see it in me, the same way I could see the war in him. We were both men who'd killed for causes we hoped were worth the cost.

“Too many times,” I said.

He nodded, understanding without needing explanation. “It does not get easier.”

“No. It doesn't.”