The woods were quiet save for the occasional rustle of wind through the trees, the faint crackle of a distant fire, and the muted murmurs of men huddled together in tense anticipation. The Headhunters had gathered in a secluded clearing deep in the countryside, a safe distance from Charleville-Mézières. A small fire smoldered low, its smoke carefully funneled into the thick canopy above to avoid detection.

  Emmett sat on a fallen log, arms crossed, his tongue still throbbing in dull, rhythmic pulses. He could taste the iron tang of blood lingering in his mouth, a reminder of the absurd events that had unfolded hours earlier. Henri stood near the center of the group, gesturing with his hands as he spoke in French, relaying the information they had gathered.

  “Our good friend, the priest, has provided us with something very useful,” Henri said, his voice carrying an energy that betrayed his excitement. “A fuel depot. At the moment, they have enough petrol to keep the Germans in the area, moving for some time… if we let them.”

  The men muttered among themselves, eyes sharpening as Henri continued.

  “A sizable stockpile is being held in a storage yard, awaiting transport to different locations. If we can take it out before it moves, we deal a considerable blow to their supply lines. Our friends in London were of course, gracious enough to send us a little something to help with that.” He grinned. “That supply drop from a few days ago. A few choice explosives. Plastic explosive, prepped with pencil timers. Lucky us, no?”

  A ripple of approval moved through the group.

  Henri nodded. “Now, if we can place these charges correctly, we won’t even need to blow up every single tank. We light up one or two, and the rest should follow in a glorious chain reaction. With the amount of fuel they have stored, once the fire starts, it will not stop. The Germans will be scrambling with their dicks in their hands.”

  That earned a few chuckles.

  Henri gestured to Luc. “We have a tight window. Twenty-four hours. That is all. We survey, we plan, we execute. We will send a few of us into town to watch the depot. Guard rotations, weak points, blind spots. We need to know how we’re getting in and how the hell we’re getting out.”

  Luc nodded, adjusting his cap. “How many men are we sending to scout?”

  Henri considered. “Two pairs. I will go, naturally. Marcel, you will be with me.” He turned to another fighter. “Pierre, you and Luc will take the second sector. You have from now until nightfall to get the information we need. No risks, no heroics. Get in, observe, and get back out.”

  Luc smirked. “No heroics? Henri, you wound me.”

  “That is the goal,” Henri quipped before continuing. “While we scout, the rest of you will prepare. The charges need to be prepped. We do not have a second chance at this. Once we move, we need to move fast.” He let the gravity of that statement settle before finishing, “Tomorrow night, we burn the bastards out. And enjoy some wonderful fireworks.”

  The group exchanged glances, some nodding, others murmuring their agreement. The fire flickered, casting shifting shadows across their faces. The tension in the air was palpable, not fear, but the weight of responsibility.

  Henri clapped his hands together. “That is the plan. You all know your roles. Let’s get to work.”

  The men dispersed into their respective tasks, murmuring quietly amongst themselves. Emmett remained seated, rolling his aching jaw as Henri approached, a cigarette tucked between his fingers. Without a word, he offered one to Emmett, who took it with a grunt of thanks.

  Henri smirked as Emmett lit it, taking a deep drag. “Not your best day, mon ami?” He said switching to English.

  Emmett exhaled slowly, smoke curling into the cool night air. “Shut the hell up, Henri.”

  Henri laughed, patting him on the shoulder before sauntering off to oversee the preparations. Emmett sat in silence, staring at the fire, cigarette burning between his fingers. Tomorrow night, the depot would burn.

  Emmett lay flat in the cold, damp mud, the moisture seeping slowly through his clothing, chilling him to the bone. His eyes narrowed slightly, scanning the modest-sized fuel depot illuminated by the distant glow of electric lights casting a muted orange haze across the storage tanks, crates, and neatly stacked barrels. Beside it ran the dark, silent rails of the railway line, gleaming faintly in the faint artificial light, stretching off into the distant shadows.

  Emmett shifted quietly, feeling the slick mud beneath him as he carefully checked his wristwatch once again. Three minutes till 2 AM. His breath came in slow, controlled clouds, visible only faintly in the freezing night air. He glanced briefly behind him, assessing the Headhunters crouched low among the brush. They were painted black across their faces, eyes bright and tense beneath smudged brows. Dark clothing, blended seamlessly into the moonless gloom. Each man was an indistinct silhouette, only visible by the occasional glint of eyes or quiet shifting of limbs.

  He tapped Henri’s shoulder lightly. Henri turned to him, expression sharp, mouth pulled into that familiar, confident smirk beneath darkened features.

  Emmett leaned in close, his voice little more than a whisper in French. "From here on out, hand signals only. Move fast, stay quiet. Be ready."

  Henri gave a small nod, his eyes serious. "Oui, understood."

  Emmett swept his gaze slowly across the other men, each meeting his eyes briefly, giving a firm, silent nod of understanding. He felt a quiet sense of pride. They were good men, tense and nervous, perhaps, but solid. They all knew what they were doing.

  "Check your weapons," Emmett murmured, his voice barely audible.

  A soft series of metallic clicks and muted rustles followed, weapons being carefully inspected one final time. Emmett himself checked his MP40, running his gloved fingers lightly along the smooth, cool metal, ensuring it was ready. A fresh magazine was in place, the weapon clean and ready for its grim work.

  Henri quietly checked his own pistol, slipping it back into the holster beneath his jacket with practiced ease. Emmett caught his gaze, and Henri flashed a confident grin. One part excitement, two parts bravado.

  "One minute," Henri whispered softly, glancing at his wristwatch. "Are you ready, mon ami?"

  Emmett's eyes never left the depot, breathing slow, steady, controlled. "Always," he replied simply, his voice calm and level, betraying nothing of the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

  Ahead of them, Wehrmacht soldiers patrolled the depot in lazy pairs, rifles slung casually, their voices drifting on the night air in bored, tired German chatter. Cigarettes glowed intermittently, casting tiny orange pinpoints in the darkness. Their posture was relaxed, their vigilance dulled by routine and exhaustion. Perfect, Emmett thought grimly.

  "Forty seconds," Henri murmured softly, his voice edged with anticipation.

  Emmett nodded slowly, eyes flicking once more to his watch, watching the second hand tick away the moments before the chaos began. He shifted carefully, tensing his muscles in preparation. The dampness of the earth, the bite of the night air, and the faint smell of oil and machinery drifted from the depot, mixing with the distant aroma of cigarette smoke from the oblivious soldiers.

  Henri was breathing quietly beside him, fingers brushing restlessly along the hilt of his knife. "Twenty seconds," he said, barely audible. His grin widened. "You sure you don't want to say a little prayer first, Emmett?"

  Emmett didn't break his gaze from the depot, his tone flat. "Never been much for prayers, Henri. But you’re welcome to waste your breath."

  Henri chuckled softly, a quiet, nervous release of tension. "Fair enough. Ten seconds."

  Emmett drew one final, deep breath, feeling the calm settle over him like a blanket, steadying his nerves and sharpening his focus to a razor's edge.

  "Five seconds," Henri counted down, his voice tight with anticipation.

  Emmett exhaled slowly, eyes locked forward. "Three..."

  He felt the men behind him tense, readying themselves to burst from cover.

  "Two..."

  His grip tightened on the MP40, finger resting lightly against the trigger guard.

  "One..."

  Emmett’s voice came out as a low, dangerous growl, carrying only to those closest. "Vive la Résistance, you sons of bitches."

  In one fluid motion, Emmett rose swiftly into a low crouch, Henri immediately beside him. Like ghosts emerging from the dark, the Headhunters melted from cover, splitting seamlessly into their assigned groups. Boots moved soundlessly over mud and wet grass as the team advanced rapidly and silently toward the depot fence. Their shadows danced briefly through patches of darkness and thin pools of amber lamplight, their weapons held low, bodies coiled and ready.

  As Emmett approached the fence line, he paused only for a heartbeat, eyes scanning for movement or threat. Seeing none, he signaled sharply to Henri and the others behind him, his hand motions crisp and clear. Advance, breach, disperse. Henri responded instantly, motioning for a man with bolt cutters to step forward.

  The fence parted quietly, cut cleanly in moments. Emmett glanced one final time at his men, the cold, confident calm settled over him fully now, washing away all thought except the task at hand. Then signaled two groups forward into the fuel depot with sharp, deliberate motions of his gloved hand. The chosen men split away seamlessly, melting into the shadows cast by the uneven lighting, their darkened faces becoming indistinguishable from the night itself.

  The rest of the team stayed low, lurking quietly in reserve outside the fence line, poised and ready should things go south.

  Emmett nodded to Henri, and they moved forward through the cut fence. They moved in tandem, weaving deftly between the towering shadows of transport trucks and rows of fuel drums. Every step was deliberate, careful, utterly silent. They moved like wraiths, invisible to the sleepy-eyed guards who patrolled the depot in lethargic pairs, muttering quietly in German, bored senseless by routine and eager for their shift to end.

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  Approaching the first large fuel tank, Henri dropped into a smooth crouch, easing his rucksack off his shoulder. He quickly retrieved a brick of plastic explosive and a pencil detonator, his fingers steady and practiced. He meticulously inserted the pencil fuse, arming the chemical timer with a quiet, barely audible click.

  “All set,” Henri mouthed, holding up a thumb.

  Emmett gave a brief, curt nod, his eyes carefully scanning their surroundings. A pair of Wehrmacht guards moved casually toward them, their footsteps crunching faintly over gravel. Their voices drifted lazily through the cool night air, discussing cigarettes and girls waiting back home.

  Emmett’s hand flashed a sharp, swift warning gesture, and Henri instantly pressed himself flat against the shadowed side of the fuel tank, quickly tucking the primed explosive into place, obscured by darkness. Emmett pressed in close beside him, holding his breath as the guards passed mere inches away, completely oblivious. The pungent scent of cigarettes lingered in their wake, mingling with the oil-slicked air.

  “Smoking around all this fuel… braver than me.” Emmett thought.

  Only after the guards had disappeared from sight did Emmett exhale slowly, meeting Henri’s eyes. Henri offered a tense grin, mouthing silently, “Too close.”

  Emmett gave a tight nod, signaling to move out. They withdrew carefully, hugging the shadows cast by stacks of crates and fuel barrels. As they rounded another stack of barrels, Emmett halted abruptly. Henri nearly collided with him, stumbling slightly before catching himself and shooting Emmett a questioning glance. Ahead, silhouetted against the soft orange glow of a dim lamp, stood a Wehrmacht officer, calmly inspecting a clipboard. He turned slightly, and recognition flared instantly in Emmett’s mind. Oberleutnant Klaus Fischer. The officer from the church.

  Emmett’s jaw tightened, a cold resolve settling deep into his gut. Fischer looked up suddenly, sensing the presence nearby. Emmett shoved Henri quickly behind cover, pressing himself into the shadows. Fischer, curious, began moving toward their position, his footsteps echoing lightly on the packed dirt.

  In a heartbeat, Emmett sprang forward, his gloved hand clamping hard over Fischer’s mouth, silencing any outcry, and slammed him against a stack of drums. Fischer dropped his clipboard, struggling frantically, eyes wide with shock.

  Henri instantly sprang forward, ripping Fischer’s sidearm from his holster before the man could reach for it.

  Fischer struggled desperately, eyes rolling back to see his assailants, confusion clouding his features, his muffled attempts at speech frantic against Emmett’s palm. Emmett’s expression never changed, the same cold indifference lingering in his gaze. With practiced calm, his right hand smoothly drew the dagger from his belt.

  Fischer’s eyes caught the glint of steel, bulging in sudden panic. Emmett held his gaze for just a split second. A fraction of recognition flashing in Fischer’s eyes as he suddenly placed the grimy face before him.

  Without hesitation, Emmett plunged the knife deep into Fischer’s chest. The blade sank smoothly through wool and flesh, puncturing lungs, scraping ribs. Fischer jerked violently, gasping sharply against Emmett’s hand. Emmett’s face was stone, his breathing steady and slow, eyes locked onto Fischer’s in quiet, merciless determination.

  Twisting the blade free, Emmett stabbed again, this time higher, feeling the blade slip neatly between ribs. Fischer spasmed, eyes wide, terrified, silently pleading for mercy that would not come. Emmett calmly withdrew the knife again, blade slick with blood, before swiftly dragging it across Fischer’s exposed throat. Hot blood spilled freely, splattering against Emmett’s gloved hands, soaking the officer’s uniform instantly.

  Fischer’s legs buckled, his body limp and heavy. Emmett calmly lowered him to the ground, palm still firmly over Fischer’s mouth as the man weakly pawed at his severed throat, choking softly. Henri stared grimly, expression slightly shaken.

  “Almost feel bad about that one, mon ami,” Henri whispered softly, eyes troubled.

  Emmett shot him a sharp, dismissive glance, finger pressed to his lips in firm command to remain silent. Henri nodded solemnly, but his eyes still lingered briefly on Fischer’s dying form as it shuddered weakly against the earth. Fischer’s trembling hand reached weakly, fingers brushing Henri’s trouser leg before falling limply to the side.

  They turned away quickly, moving swiftly to escape before the kill was discovered, but a voice suddenly called out sharply through the night air.

  “Oberleutnant, warum…”

  A Wehrmacht soldier appeared abruptly around the stack of barrels, rifle already raised, surprise flashing across his face. Emmett turned, reacting instantly, but the soldier squeezed the trigger first. The sharp crack of the rifle shattered the silence, muzzle flash briefly illuminating the shadows.

  Before Emmett could fully react, Henri lifted Fischer’s captured pistol, firing several rapid shots. Bullets punched into the soldier’s chest, spinning him backward, rifle clattering uselessly to the ground as the man let out a pained groan and writhed on the gravel.

  Cries erupted across the depot, lights flickering on, shouts of alarm echoing sharply. Heavy boots stampeded across gravel and earth. Emmett quickly aimed his MP40 forward, finger tightening on the trigger. Something felt strangely numb along his side. An odd, muted ache, but adrenaline and instinct pushed it aside.

  Henri grabbed Emmett’s shoulder, yelling over the din, “We have to get out… now!”

  Emmett nodded sharply, staggering slightly as they bolted toward the breach in the fence. The strange numbness in his side began to deepen into a fiery agony, each heartbeat pulsing fresh waves of pain through him. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself forward.

  A cluster of Wehrmacht soldiers appeared ahead, rifles leveling. Emmett raised his MP40 and squeezed the trigger, bullets hammering into them, scattering the group and buying precious seconds as they raced past. His magazine ran empty just as the fence line appeared, gaping open ahead.

  Emmett’s legs suddenly gave out beneath him, knees hitting the cold, muddy earth, pain erupting violently in his abdomen. Henri immediately grabbed him, hauling him upright with desperate strength.

  “Jesus! Emmett, you’re hit!” Henri shouted in panic, wrapping an arm around his friend and practically dragging him toward the fence.

  Gunfire roared around them, rounds kicking up sprays of dirt and gravel. Emmett’s vision swam, dizziness threatening to overwhelm him, but he pushed through, heart pounding furiously. They plunged through the fence gap, falling hard to the ground on the other side. Emmett gasped, agony flaring hotly in his side.

  Henri shouted orders desperately into the darkness, “Covering fire! Emmett’s down!”

  The reserve fighters erupted from concealment, weapons barking angrily, suppressing the advancing Wehrmacht. Bullets zipped overhead, splintering wood posts and cracking sharply against metal.

  Henri pulled Emmett roughly to his feet again, shouting over the chaos, “Hang on, mon ami! I’ve got you!”

  Emmett staggered forward, biting back waves of searing pain, clutching desperately at his bleeding side. His breathing came harsh and shallow, his vision dimming as shock settled over him like an icy fog.

  “Fuck…” he gasped weakly, blood soaking hotly through his clothes, dripping between his fingers. “Henri... I’m hit bad.”

  “Stay awake, Emmett! We’ll get you out of here!” Henri shouted urgently, signaling another HeadHunter to help carry Emmett as gunfire thundered relentlessly around them.

  Together, they stumbled desperately toward the tree line, bullets tearing through the air, the depot now a cacophony of alarms, shouts, and gunfire as chaos engulfed the night.

  The Headhunters moved, practically dragging Emmett through the cold, wet underbrush toward the trees. Boots slipped in mud, rifles cracked behind them, and the sharp bark of German voices echoed through the depot, growing louder with every second.

  Emmett’s breath came shallow, sharp. His chest rose and fell in ragged bursts, but even that effort seemed too much. Hot pain bloomed through his side like fire licking under his skin, spreading out with every jostling step. His vision swam, colors dulling at the edges, shapes twisting, warping. Somewhere in the noise, in the chaos, he felt himself sag, his body giving up piece by piece. His legs barely moved, and when they did, it was more reflex than will.

  He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even groan. The pain was too sharp, too deep. Every breath felt like dragging a knife across raw nerves.

  Emmett didn’t remember falling. One moment, his boots were pounding against the wet ground, half-stumbling, half-running toward the treeline, rifle fire ripping through the night around them. The next, the cold hit him again, sharp and searing through his side as his knees buckled without warning.

  He crashed to the earth hard, mud soaking through his clothes. The air ripped from his lungs in a violent burst, and for a second, he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t even gasp. The pain that bloomed across his abdomen wasn’t sharp anymore. It was molten, radiating through his side like a slow, angry fire. He blinked hard, vision blurring around the edges, his ears filled with the muffled roar of blood thundering through his skull.

  Someone knelt beside him.

  “Shit, he’s down!”

  Emmett couldn’t place the voice. Maybe Pierre. Maybe Jules. Didn’t matter.

  Someone else dropped to a knee beside him, mud splashing. Strong hands grabbed under his arms, trying to haul him up, but Emmett's body wouldn't cooperate. His limbs were stone. He was dead weight now, barely able to keep his eyes open, let alone help himself.

  “He’s not walking. We’re out of time!”

  The decision came fast. He felt himself being shifted, hoisted onto someone’s back. A grunt of effort, and then the world tilted violently as he was carried in a fireman's lift. The pressure on his wound was unbearable. Emmett’s jaw clenched so tight it felt like it would crack. No scream came. No breath. Just pure, white-hot agony.

  It felt like the wind had been sucked from his chest. Like he was drowning on dry land.

  Somewhere behind them, gunfire erupted in sharp staccato bursts. The Headhunters laid down fire as they retreated, returning shot for shot. Muzzle flashes burst like fireworks through the trees, lighting grim faces and clenched jaws. The sounds of the forest were drowned beneath the ripping scream of rifle fire and the scattered clatter of submachine guns.

  “Keep moving! Into the trees!”

  Henri’s voice cut above the chaos, raw and commanding. “Get him to the truck! Go!”

  "Move! Move!" Henri’s voice barked from up ahead, furious and strained. "We’re almost there, get to the truck!"

  The trees parted just ahead, revealing a thin trail and the haphazard shape of the camouflaged truck tucked under a grove of pines. As the group broke the treeline, Emmett heard it.

  BOOM.

  The ground heaved beneath them.

  A monstrous, blinding fireball tore skyward from the depot, an orange and yellow inferno that swallowed the night and lit the treetops like it was midday. The blast wave punched through the air with a deafening roar, flattening grass, shaking leaves, and throwing stunned Wehrmacht soldiers to the ground like rag dolls.

  The shockwave hit Emmett's limp body a beat later, thudding against his chest and pressing pain deeper into his gut like a hammer to a wound. He gasped, or tried to. His body barely responded.

  Then, BOOM. BOOM.

  Two more explosions ripped the sky apart, one after another, rolling fire and shrapnel into the heavens. Bright geysers of flame burst upward as the fuel tanks ignited, painting the entire countryside in a flickering hell-glow. Black smoke churned above the depot, reaching hungrily for the stars.

  The Germans screamed, scattering like ants underfoot, others simply froze in place as flaming debris arced into the sky and crashed down like hellfire. The sound of groaning metal and shattering glass filled the air, the depot lighting up like the gates of damnation had swung wide.

  Behind them, the Headhunters whooped and hollered like madmen, caught in the chaos and glory of their own destruction. That fireball was theirs.

  “Ha ha! Vive la Résistance!” someone shouted.

  A few hooted in triumph, pumping fists or weapons into the air even as they ran.

  “Start it! Come on, damn you, START!” Henri shouted, pounding on the hood.

  The starter whined angrily, sputtered, died. Then caught again.

  Another cough. A mechanical choke.

  Then… life.

  The engine roared, then settled into a low rumble. Emmett felt the weight shift beneath him as someone hauled open the rear of the truck and began lifting him in.

  “Get him in! Cover the rear!”

  He was slid unceremoniously into the back, boots scraping the wooden bed. One of the Headhunters climbed in behind him, laying suppressive fire into the trees as bullets cracked and snapped overhead. The truck rocked as more piled in.

  A rifle shot tore through the night, and a wooden rail beside Emmett’s head exploded into splinters. Another punched through a side panel, piercing the steel with a metallic scream.

  “Go! Go now!” Henri barked, leaping onto the tailgate and pounding the side.

  The truck lurched forward, tires churning mud as it jolted out of cover. It hesitated, stalling, but then the engine roared again, louder, stronger, pulling them away. Shots rang out behind them, angry German shouting fading into the distance. One last burst of automatic fire chattered as they sped deeper into the forest.

  Henri dropped to his knees beside Emmett, panting, sweat, paint and grime streaked across his face. He grabbed Emmett’s hand, squeezing it tightly.

  “You’re gonna be alright, mon ami,” he said, grinning through the exhaustion. “We did it. You crazy fool. We did it.”

  Emmett tried to nod. He managed a faint twitch, blood staining his hands. The world was spinning faster now. Blurring at the edges. Cold creeping into his fingertips.

  “Hey, hey, look at me!” he shouted over the rising noise. “You're gonna be okay, mon ami. You hear me? We got you. You’re alright.”

  Emmett blinked slowly. The fire behind Henri lit up half his face, the other cast in deep shadow.

  Someone stuffed a rolled-up blanket under his head. He barely registered it. All he could feel was the shaking of the truck, and with each bounce, the pain in his side surged anew. Raw, jagged waves of agony that stole his breath and twisted his gut.

  Still, he held Henri’s hand in a death grip. Not because he was scared.

  Because he wasn’t done yet.