Emmett followed the tracks of the wolfmen, keeping a careful distance. He never saw them clearly. Only glimpses. Flickers of movement through the snow-dusted timber, the occasional blur slipping across a clearing. They moved like ghosts, and to keep up, Emmett was forced to push himself hard.

  The pace they set was punishing. His legs throbbed, every bruise pulsing like a drumbeat. His breath came ragged, and he’d already popped more of Lucas’s pain pills than he should have. Three, to be exact. Lucas had warned him. one a day, max. But Emmett had ignored it. Twenty minutes after the third pill, his body felt lighter. Less pain, more drive. His heart, though beat too fast. Tongue like cotton.

  Didn’t matter. He pressed on.

  He crested a low hill, then froze, dropping flat onto his belly. Below, in the valley, the hybrids moved in formation. Disciplined, focused. Emmett slid his binoculars from his coat, checked the canvas was still tied over the lenses, and brought them up to his face.

  German lines. Barbed wire, sandbags. Machineguns and trenches. The hybrids marched right through the checkpoint without hesitation. Guards barely even raised a brow.

  Emmett clenched his jaw. “So that’s it, huh?” he muttered. “Right back to the kennel.”

  He’d expected them to stop, resupply, maybe wait until nightfall before attempting another attack. That would’ve given him time. Time to plan. To rest.

  Now he just had to wait. Again.

  He coughed quietly into his sleeve, heart hammering too fast. It wasn’t the cold. It was those goddamn pills.

  “Calm down,” he told himself through gritted teeth. “Didn’t survive all this, just to keel over from a heart attack.”

  He packed a fistful of snow into his mouth and lay perfectly still. Breathing deep. Slow.

  Lucas had been right. As always.

  Just as he started cursing himself for never asking what the hell those pills actually were, he heard it. Crunching snow.

  Footsteps.

  Emmett tensed, eye scanning. It was still early morning, dark enough that he shouldn’t be easily seen, especially with the white poncho and helmet cover. Still, he pushed more snow into his mouth, letting his breath slow, body go limp, weapon resting beneath his arms.

  “I swear I saw something,” a voice said in German.

  “You always see things,” another replied, wearier.

  “Have you forgotten where we are, du Narr? I will not have Russian scouts crawling around, yes?” The first snapped.

  The second man sighed. Their boots crunched closer.

  Emmett cursed inwardly. Careless. Could’ve been the drugs. Could’ve just been exhaustion. Either way, if they got too close, he’d have no choice but to kill them. Even suppressed, the shot would echo.

  And if they got one shot off first? He was dead. Likely chased into the forest by those hybrids.

  He stayed still. Dead still. Finger resting on the trigger.

  Oberschütze Mahler swung his flashlight slowly through the brush, his Kar98 held low but ready. He knew he’d seen something. Maybe a deer. Maybe Russian scouts.

  Thiel, his companion, was jittery. Wound tighter than a spring. Mahler had known from the start the kid wasn’t ready for this. Young and fresh faced like too many of the recruits these days. The young mans hands trembled on the stock of his rifle, eyes darting at every shadow.

  “You see anything?” their Unteroffizier called from back along the trail.

  “Nein!” Mahler shouted back, wincing at the sound of his own voice. Too loud. Too exposed. His nerves twitched as he swept the beam of light across the snow-covered undergrowth.

  Thiel hovered nearby, his flashlight flickering.

  “Scheisse…” Thiel muttered, tapping it against his thigh.

  Mahler narrowed his eyes. Just as the flickering beam dropped, he thought he saw it. A glint. Not metal. Not ice. An eye.

  His breath caught. He jerked the flashlight up.

  “Mahler? What is it?” Thiel hissed.

  Mahler scanned with the light, heart pounding. His eyes caught footprints in the snow. Fresh. A spot of disturbed white, like someone had lain prone just moments before.

  “Scheisse,” he whispered. Then louder, “Down! Get down!”

  He grabbed Thiel’s shoulder and yanked. The startled man stumbled, and his rifle discharged. A shot cracked into a nearby tree.

  The woods froze.

  Ears ringing, Mahler lay flat, unsure if the young man had fired intentionally. “Did you see something?”

  Thiel’s face went pale. “I… I didn’t mean to. I...”

  Mahler smacked the side of his helmet. “You idiot! You just told the whole forest we’re here!”

  From behind them, the Unteroffizier’s voice rang out. “What is happening?!”

  “Hold position!” Mahler called back. “Someone’s been here! Thiel fired by accident!”

  More footsteps now. Two more boots in the snow. The rest of their patrol closing in.

  “Get behind cover!” the Unteroffizier barked.

  Mahler dropped to one knee, eyes scanning the brush with renewed paranoia. “Keep your eyes open,” he growled at Thiel. “And for God’s sake, don’t shoot again unless you're looking at Stalin himself.”

  He didn’t know who, or what had been watching. But someone had. And they were still close.

  More footsteps now. The rest of their patrol closing in, four other’s including their Unteroffizier

  “Fan out!” the Unteroffizier barked.

  Unteroffizier Brennecke knelt beside the spot where the snow had been disturbed. He ran a glove across the impression, frowning.

  “Just one set of tracks,” he muttered. “Looks like one man. Likely point for a larger scout detachment.”

  Mahler nodded. “Could’ve been a spotter, too. Waiting to mark us for artillery.”

  Thiel swallowed hard. “Wh… what do we do?”

  Brennecke rose. “You’re going back. Run to command. Report everything. Position, footprints, shot fired. Say we’re holding until further orders.”

  Thiel looked like he’d just been handed a gift. He nodded eagerly. “Jawohl, Unteroffizier!”

  He turned to leave and immediately tripped over a root, faceplanting into the snow. The others barked rough laughter, despite the situation. Even Brennecke smirked faintly. The boy scrambled to his feet, red-faced, and bolted back down the trail. As the laughter faded, Mahler’s flashlight caught something glinting faintly in the snow. He stepped closer, crouched, and brushed away the powder.

  A brown glass bottle. Narrow, with a worn black cap. Curious, he unscrewed the lid and shook it gently. Small white pills clinked inside.

  Mahler frowned, sniffed one cautiously, and looked to Brennecke. “He must have dropped this.”

  Brennecke took the bottle, turning it over in his hand. No label. No markings.

  Mahler’s brow furrowed. “Painkillers?”

  Brennecke didn’t answer. Just stared into the woods. The same direction Thiel’s flashlight had flickered.

  “Eyes open,” he said at last. “Whoever was here, he’s still close.”

  And they waited.

  Cold. Quiet. And watched by something unseen.

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  Emmett ran.

  Snow and earth crunched underfoot as he tore through the woods, lungs burning, heart hammering like a war drum in his chest. He had slipped the patrol. Barely. They hadn't pursued immediately, opting to hold position and wait for orders. That was the break he needed. If they called in the wolfmen, though, it wouldn’t stay a break for long.

  He couldn’t take that chance.

  His breath puffed out in thick white clouds as he pushed forward, deeper into the dark timber. Emmett’s instincts screamed for distance, not finesse. Still, if they were truly on his trail, just running wouldn't cut it. There was a stream ahead. He’d crossed it earlier. If he could reach it, he might be able to throw them off. Maybe.

  He considered doubling back. But it was too risky. The stream wasn’t far. Maybe a mile, two tops. Distance. Speed. That was the priority now.

  Then he heard it.

  He froze.

  A sound. Faint. At first, it could’ve been the wind, or the creaking of branches. He paused running, and stilled his breath. Listening. One second. Two.

  Then he heard it again.

  Howls.

  A chill crept up his spine like an ice pick between the vertebrae. The sound was distant but unmistakable. Wolves, but he doubted it was the kind that were on all fours.

  "Fuck me," he snarled, breaking into a sprint.

  His legs pumped, every stride jarring the bruises beneath his gear. The pills dulled the pain, but they couldn't silence the fatigue clawing at him. He adjusted his M3 Grease Gun in his arms and pushed harder, barreling through snow and brush. The howls rose again, more joining this time.

  Closer.

  Then, salvation. A soft roar in the distance. The stream.

  Emmett found a second wind. He hurled himself through a thicket, boots slipping as he scrambled down the embankment. The stream flowed before him, water black and freezing.

  He stomped into the icy current without hesitation. The water soaked into his boots and trousers immediately, stealing warmth with every step. He grit his teeth and turned downstream, moving as fast as he could, hugging the far bank. He slung the Grease Gun across his chest and fished into his coat.

  Scent cover.

  He tore off a glove with his teeth, pulled the bottle free, and slapped the cold, stinging liquid across his neck and uniform. Rubbing it in, and praying it would do something.

  The water sucked at his legs, but the streambed at least gave him good purchase. Being mostly dirt and gravel. He pressed forward, current at his back, listening intently. His ears caught every snap of a branch, every bird that dared call out.

  And then, another wave of howls. Closer still.

  "Come on," he panted, forcing his aching legs to keep moving. His teeth gritted, adrenaline warring with exhaustion.

  After several hundred yards, he saw it. An exposed rock bed where the stream undercut the land. A natural exit.

  He stepped onto the stones, careful, deliberate. Then he slipped into the brush, choosing his path with purpose. The rocks gave way to fresh snow. He couldn't leave tracks.

  Emmett grabbed a pine branch, shook it free of loose needles, and began walking backward into the snow. His boots left crisp imprints in the powder, but he swept over them as he moved, scattering the snow just enough to blur them.

  Thirty feet.

  Fifty.

  He reached a dense cluster of pines and jammed the branch deep into the lowest boughs. The howl came again, this time so close he swore he felt it in his bones.

  "One foot in front of the other," he hissed to himself.

  He wasn’t sure how long he’d been running. Only that he was hanging on by threads. His chest burned, each breath a ragged gasp that drew frozen air like glass into his lungs. The snow dragged at his boots, turning every step into a battle, and the fatigue gnawed at his focus. His hand twitched toward the inside of his coat. Toward the bottle of Halloway's magic pills. He paused. No. That would’ve been number four in just half a days time. Tempting fate any further would risk him keeling over. He already regretted taking as many as he had.

  Then, movement. Through the trees ahead.

  His heart jumped, weapon snapping up by reflex. For a moment, he thought the hybrids had gotten ahead of him, cut him off. Panic flared. He dropped low, breathing through clenched teeth, scanning the movement ahead. But the figures weren’t moving with urgency. No chase. No snarling.

  Bootsteps. Heavy, rhythmic, trudging.

  He adjusted position, creeping low along a ridge, careful not to silhouette himself in the shafts of morning light bleeding through the trees. When he finally got close enough to get a clean look, the tension in his shoulders broke. Olive drab. Steel helmets. Soviet patrol.

  There were maybe fifteen of them, moving in a loose column along a narrow snow-covered road. Probably shifting to another forward outpost or maybe reinforcing a weakened flank after a recent push.

  Emmett exhaled through his nose, a crooked grin creeping across his face.

  "Winner winner, chicken dinner," he muttered under his breath.

  He slinked away from the ridge, deeper into the brush, keeping his steps light. The woods were silent now. Not a howl, not a whisper. That kind of quiet only meant one thing. The hunters were close. Calculated. Intent. The bastards weren’t baying anymore because they didn’t need to. If they'd picked up his scent, they’d be here soon. And the poor bastards on the road had no idea what was about to hit them.

  He moved fast, cutting through the woods until he was a few hundred feet up the road from the Soviet patrol’s path. With a burst of motion, he sprinted toward the road, leapt across it like a fox flushed from cover, and vanished into the opposite treeline. One muddy bootprint slapped in the center of the road, stark against the white.

  He hunkered down behind a fallen tree, controlling his breath as he listened.

  The Soviets were coming, unaware. Metal clinked. Boots crunched. Russian muttering floated on the air. Emmett grinned again.

  The trap was set.

  He backed off and continued weaving through the brush, when the forest behind him exploded with chaos.

  Gunfire.

  Shouts.

  Snarls.

  Screams.

  The distinct report of Mosin rifles cracked, punctuated by the sharp barks of submachine guns. Chaos erupted in an instant, the telltale signs of bodies hitting the ground and the sharp, growls of the creatures that had been on his tail.

  Emmett slowed, not stopping entirely, but allowing himself a moment to drink in the sound of death that wasn’t his.

  “Sorry, comrades,” he muttered between breaths. “More of you than there are of me.”

  He turned to glance back in the direction of the road. Gunfire still echoed, and over it all, those blood-curdling howls tore through the morning air.

  “Thanks for taking one for the team, Ivan,” he added, offering a quick salute no one would see. “Ain’t personal. You lot stand a better chance than I do.”

  With that, he turned and pushed deeper into the forest. Not at a sprint now, but at a determined pace. Calculated. Measured. He knew that by the time the hybrids realized they’d been duped, if they ever did. He’d be long gone.

  He allowed himself the luxury of one last smirk.

  “Good luck Comrades." He said with a chuckle.

  A Russian soldier clawed along the frozen ground, gasping in agony. His legs were ruined. Shredded to meat from a grenade blast that had landed at his feet. Blood soaked through the snow in a thick trail behind him as he dragged himself forward, toward a Mosin-Nagant rifle lying just a few feet away. Salvation, or at least defiance, was within reach.

  Behind him, another Russian let out a final, wet death rattle. The soldier blocked it out, his world narrowed to those few desperate feet between him and the rifle. Almost there...

  A shadow fell across the rifle.

  A pair of large, booted feet stepped into view. A furred hand, massive and clawed, reached down and plucked the Mosin from the ground. The Russian froze, staring up with wide, furious eyes.

  Dieter stood over him, towering and impassive. Thick fur bristled beneath a snow-dusted poncho, and frost clung to his muzzle. His breath steamed in the cold.

  The soldier, to his credit, didn’t look away. Denied a last act of bravery, he instead met Dieter’s eyes with fury.

  Dieter, unmoved, reached down and worked the bolt of the Mosin. The action snapped open, and a single round ejected with a metallic clink, tumbling into the snow near the wounded man's hand. Then Dieter reached beneath the rifle, hooked a claw under the fixed magazine, and flicked it. The floorplate swung open, spilling cartridges like teeth across the frostbitten ground.

  The soldier let out a strangled wheeze and rolled onto his back, shutting his eyes.

  Dieter tossed the emptied rifle toward the roadside and turned to survey the devastation.

  His brothers and sister moved methodically through the field of dead men. They turned bodies, lifted limbs, sniffed at coats and faces. Hunting for something specific. For someone specific.

  Dieter scowled. Something didn’t sit right.

  Roald approached, tall and tense, his tail lashing behind him in frustration. Blood speckled his coat.

  "Nothing," Roald growled. "The scent is wrong. Masked. Doesn’t match any of them."

  Dieter nodded slowly, his eyes scanning the tree line. His breath curled in the air.

  "Ja," he muttered. "Whoever we were chasing... used these men as bait."

  He drew in a deep breath through his nose, searching for a trace, a clue. But the overwhelming stink of blood and gunpowder masked everything.

  "We need to move quickly, or..."

  "Spichka," came a hoarse voice.

  Dieter turned, ears twitching.

  The wounded Russian lay there, eyes open again. Defiant.

  "Spichka," he repeated. Match.

  Dieter raised a brow and glanced at Roald. After a moment, he reached into his coat and produced a battered tin of matches from his survival kit. He knelt and handed it over.

  The Russian accepted it without a word. From his coat, he pulled a flattened cigarette tin, slid a cigarette between cracked lips, struck the match against his thumb nail, and lit it. Smoke curled from his mouth as he exhaled slowly toward the sky.

  Dieter watched him for a moment, his eyes narrowing. As the Russian puffed slowly on the cigarette.

  Roald shook his head. "We must leave, brother. Too close to the Russian line. No telling how many heard the gunfire."

  Dieter nodded. "Aye. Our quarry is gone."

  Still kneeling, Dieter looked the man in the eye. His voice was low, his Russian rough.

  "Was there a scout with your group? One not part of your unit? Someone watching the German lines?"

  The Russian glared. He turned his head and spat blood into the snow.

  Roald’s lips peeled back in a snarl. He stepped forward and ground his boot into the wounded man’s shredded knee.

  The Russian hissed in agony, nearly dropping his cigarette. His face twisted in pain.

  Finally, through gritted teeth, he answered.

  "We were moving to a forward outpost. I know nothing of a scout." He gasped in Russian.

  Dieter stared into the man’s eyes, then nodded once. Roald lifted his boot.

  "Do you believe him?" Roald asked.

  Dieter stood slowly, rubbing a hand over his muzzle. "If we didn’t already suspect it was a diversion, no. But now? We don’t have much choice."

  Roald sighed and looked toward the dark edge of the forest. "Ach... do we pursue?"

  Dieter looked down at the Russian, who now lay pale and smoking in the snow.

  He shook his head. "Nein. We’re too close to their lines. If we go further, we’ll run headfirst into another patrol. We regroup. Report to command."

  Roald gave a curt nod and turned to rejoin the others.

  Dieter remained for a moment longer, then drew his sidearm from its holster. He stood over the wounded man.

  The Russian didn’t look away.

  The shot rang out, clean and final.

  Dieter relaxed his arm, and let his pistol hang at his side. He noticed the cigarette tin resting on the man's stomach. The morning light glinting off it’s surface. He reached down and picked it up.

  His kind had been forbidden the act of smoking. It was said to damage their lungs. And they were too valuable, too irreplaceable. But Dieter understood all too well why men smoked. In moments like this, it wasn’t about health. It was to calm the nerves.

  He studied the tin briefly, its surface dented and scratched with age, then tucked it into his coat without a word.

  He holstered the pistol and turned, walking past one of the younger hybrids. He laid a hand on her shoulder.

  "Come, little sister," he said tiredly.

  She turned her head. Her ice-blue eyes glittered with restrained frustration.

  "We are giving up?" she asked.

  "Ja," Dieter said. "This diversion has likely alerted the others. If we press forward, we risk being surrounded."

  Eira’s jaw tensed. She slung her rifle across her back and fell into step beside him.

  "Hauptmann Baumann will not be pleased," she said.

  Dieter gave a tired grunt. "Ja. I know it, Eira."