14th of July 1941

Location: Somewhere above North Atlantic

"One."

"Two."

"Three."

"Four."

Otto Skorzeny stood at the open rear hatch of the aircraft, thousands of meters above the earth. His uniform snapped and cracked violently in the wind, the cold tearing at his face. His eyes were fixed on the man before him.

"Four," he said again. Quieter this time.

The man met his gaze for just a moment. His eyes were trembling. Not from the altitude, not from the darkness below. From Skorzeny himself.

He looked back at the open hatch.

Then he jumped.

Skorzeny watched him go, then turned toward the cockpit and gave a single gesture to the pilot.

Then he turned his back to the hatch.

He did not look down. He did not check his equipment. He simply stood at the edge with his back to the darkness, the wind hammering against him, and smiled.

Then he let himself fall.

The aircraft vanished above him instantly, swallowed by the black sky. For a moment there was nothing but the rush of air and the vast, indifferent darkness in every direction.

It was a breathtaking feeling. One that nothing in the world could replicate.

Not power. Not victory. Not fear.

Only this.

"Hahahaha."

Skorzeny laughed loudly as the air filled his cheeks, the sound swallowed instantly by the wind and the darkness around him.

Moments later he hit the ground and rolled, smooth and practiced, absorbing the impact without breaking stride. When he rose again the parachute was already gone, stripped away in a single motion, his submachine gun up and ready.

"One, two, three, four."

"All clear."

Skorzeny turned toward the voice. Four silhouettes emerged from the darkness, moving without sound, weapons raised. His men. Each one already in position, already scanning the treeline.

He looked them over once. That was enough.

"Team Trident is assembled," he said quietly.

They moved forward in a tight line, not a single sound between them. The landscape stretched out before them, dark and flat, the only light a pale shape of the moon behind thin clouds.

Skorzeny led from the front, his eyes already ahead.

Four other teams were approaching the target in the very same way, all coming from different directions. Each one silent. Converging slowly...

"Cut it."

One of his men stepped forward without a word, wire cutters already in hand. The fence parted with a series of quiet snaps. The gap opened just wide enough.

Skorzeny went through first.

The others followed, one by one.

Somewhere not far away

"Full house."

"Ahh, I can’t believe it!"

A group of men sat around a folding table, a damp light flickering from the single bulb above them, all clad in military uniforms. Cards and coins were scattered across the surface. Someone had spilled coffee earlier and nobody had bothered to wipe it up.

"How are you so lucky every time?" Jón asked, shaking his head. He had lost far too much of his meager salary tonight.

The man opposite only laughed, already pulling the pile toward himself.

"Skill, not luck."

"Of course." Jón shook his head slowly and stood up, his chair scraping against the floor.

"Enough is enough."

"Oh, come on." The other four said it almost in unison.

Jón waved them off without turning around.

"I will go for a smoke."

He made his way toward the metal door, his boots echoing in the small room. Before stepping out he reached for his rifle leaning against the wall. One could never be too careful in these times.

The cold air hit his face the moment the door swung open. He pulled his coat closed and exhaled, his breath visible for just a moment before the wind took it.

With trembling hands he pulled a cigarette from his inner coat, together with a lighter. He cupped his hands against the wind and tried to light it.

The lighter did not catch.

"Fuck."

Again. Again. The flint sparked but nothing held.

"Here."

Jón paused.

He tilted his head slowly, the unlit cigarette still between his lips.

A hand. A lighter. Extended toward him from behind, calm and unhurried, as though this were the most natural thing in the world.

He reached for it. His fingers closed around it.

Then it hit him. The lighter still held between both hands, neither letting go.

The silence around him was suddenly different.

"You..." His voice came out smaller than he intended. "Who are you?"

He did not turn around. He could feel a cold iron muzzle pressed against the back of his head.

"You can turn," the voice said.

Slowly, agonizingly so, he did. His hands came up without being asked.

Before him stood a tall man. A distinctive scar ran across his cheek.

But Jón’s gaze did not linger on the man. It moved past him, through the open door, toward the table he had been sitting at moments ago.

His comrades were all dead. Each one still in his chair, heads slumped forward onto the cards and coins.

Jón looked back at the man before him. The fear in his eyes had become something else.

Anger.

"Who are you?"

The man smiled. Just slightly.

"Death."

He held Jón’s gaze for one more second, then looked past him, scanning the large concrete expanse stretching out into the darkness.

"Turn on the runway lights."

At the same time, Spain

Werner looked through the small window set into the concrete wall. Iron bars cut across the opening, dividing the pale sky outside into neat, indifferent rectangles.

That was right. He was in a prison. A Spanish one.

"What do you want, Prien?"

He did not turn toward the Captain standing outside his cell.

"I wanted to inform you that we managed to reach the Gestapo through a number of steps."

A pause.

"A plane will land here soon."

That was when Werner finally tilted his head.

He looked at Prien. The horror on his face was genuine, unguarded.

"Gestapo," he said quietly. Not a question.

Prien nodded.

Werner looked at him for a moment longer, then turned away. A sound escaped him. Low, private, a small laugh.

"Could it have been anyone else?" He shook his head slowly. "Anyone?"

Prien squinted, studying him.

"You still don’t believe me?" Werner asked. He stood, crossed the small cell, and stopped at the iron bars.

Prien shook his head.

"It is not my place to judge."

Werner looked past him for a moment, his eyes distant.

"If it were anyone else, they would bring me to Paul first," he whispered. "But Heydrich..." He let the name sit there. "He would finish it..."

"Wh—"

It happened before Prien finished the word.

Werner’s arm drove through the bars with savage force, fingers locking around the pistol at Prien’s waist and tearing it free in one single motion. His other hand followed a fraction of a second later, seizing Prien by the collar and slamming him into the bars so hard the entire cell door rattled in its frame.

Prien’s head connected with the iron. His knees buckled.

The barrel was already pressed under his chin.

Silence.

Prien’s hands hovered uselessly at his sides. His breath came in short, stunned bursts, his body still catching up to what had just happened.

Werner’s grip did not waver.

His eyes were almost apologetic.

"Open it."

Prien did not move. His breath was ragged, the metal still cold against his jaw.

"Open it," Werner said again. Quieter this time. Which was worse.

Prien’s hand did not move.

Werner held his gaze for one second. Then he sighed, almost tiredly, and turned the pistol toward the lock.

Two shots. The sound was enormous in the narrow corridor.

The cell door swung open.

But so did the distance between them. Prien stumbled back, free, chest heaving, one hand braced against the opposite wall. His eyes moved between Werner and the smoking lock and back again.

Werner stepped through the open door and stopped.

He looked at Prien. The apology in his eyes had not left.

"I am sorry, Günter," Werner said quietly.

Prien stood completely still. His breathing slowed.

He looked at Werner for a long moment.

The boots in the distance were getting closer.

Prien’s jaw tightened. Something moved behind his eyes, the same calculation that had navigated a minefield in near-total darkness.

He glanced down the corridor. Then back at Werner.

"That direction," he said quietly, tilting his head to the left. "There is a service exit at the end."

Werner held his gaze for a moment.

Then he moved.

Prien turned and walked the opposite way, unhurried, hands behind his back.

Two guards rounded the corner at speed, nearly colliding with him.

"Sir, we heard shots—"

"I know." Prien did not stop walking. "Lehmann. He went right. Move."

The guards ran past him without another word.

Prien continued walking. He did not look back.

At the far end of the corridor, a service door swung shut.

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