About You

The Red Skull was punishing her in a silent way, one that Ophelia knew very well: distancing himself. He had focused on leaving her alone in the factories Dr. Zola visited while he toured the rest of the continent alone, using the excuse that she was in charge of the security of his "greatest mind."

He hadn't even looked at her when he gave her that order.

Ophelia snarled softly at the memory and swung the whip through the air again, severing one of the mannequin heads when it reached her. She had been training exhaustively for the past two months, almost confined to the forested terrain at the foothills of the Central Alps. They weren't far enough from headquarters, but their presence had extended due to Zola's new experiments with a variant that combined the few samples of Erskine's serum and the Red Skull's blood.

Zola had promised to fill HYDRA's ranks with super soldiers, but so far, only one of the test subjects had survived without vomiting his guts out, bleeding to death on a table, or having his head blown out. A fifty-year-old man, the numbers weren't on his side, but Red Skull had complete confidence that Arnim would make it. The timing was all that mattered to him.

"It should be ready before the start of the year, Doctor." Red Skull had set the date for the first reconstructed formula to be ready in mid-August. Testing began just two days later at the organization's first base where the train had stopped.

"There's just over a month left," Ophelia mused as she moved the new black leather whip from side to side again to continue testing its flexibility and possible angles. She didn't want any surprises during a confrontation. She had been cautious, as her mentor had insisted.

Meticulous and obsessive could also be added to the list, as she'd been tracking Steve Rogers, who had now been promoted to the rank of "captain," however artificial that might be for her merchandise sales in the United States. The famed woman from the Land of the Free lined her pockets with performances in satirical singing shows while her super soldier spread propaganda by punching fake Nazis.

Now, she knew from reliable sources that he was in Italy. Zemo wasn't very specific, but at least he sent a British poster advertising upcoming performances for the New Year. Ophelia hadn't planned for Rogers to live that long if possible, but her commitment to Zola kept her tied to that cold land.

Frustrated was a kind word for how she felt right now.

He slashed the air with a ferocious slash, each blow reverberating in her aching muscles. With each lash, Ophelia tried to drown out the voices in her head: Red Skull's orders, the nighttime screams of the test subjects in the labs near her room, the disdainful glances of the SS men upon reading her file and learning of her Gypsy ancestry, the sarcastic laughter of the soldiers who had tried to lure her into lonely alleys to "earn a meal" before she bit off their fingers.

"Meyer, Becker, throw those rocks!" Ophelia exclaimed, cracking the whip over the heads of the two soldiers who immediately moved at their superior's orders, not wanting to disturb her.

Since the mysterious death of the officer in charge, Colonel Wilhelm Lohmer, Ophelia had implemented stricter treatment among the soldiers upon taking his place: no unjustified abuse or beatings of the workers. She wasn't stupid; she had seen how the man took advantage of his position to torment the prisoners of war who were using them as labor, beating them to death, so the container that fell on him was more of a revenge.

Ophelia Sarkissian could respect that, but Madame Hydra couldn't. If she allowed her officers to be killed, her prisoners would stop fearing them and start thinking of ways to escape. So, with no direct culprits, and to prevent thoughts of rebellion due to renewed morale, she ordered that everyone's food rations be cut for a week. There were sour expressions, but no direct complaints, so for now... there was no threat of mutiny.

That didn't make her any happier, because maintaining order was her sole obligation. To win the Red Skull's favor, he had to do something extraordinary. His first two thoughts were: Find the Serpent Crown or bring him Steve Rogers's head, just to prove his point about not being someone who left scores unfinished business.

Looking out at the outside world from the fifth-floor window, the Red Skull could imagine his wrist throbbing intensely after an hour and a half of wildly repelling rocks and blanks that mimicked real projectiles. The air spun with every crack and swirled in what felt like a razor-sharp tornado as the whip spun in circles before slamming into the rocks, hurling them aimlessly with more force than they'd been thrown.

They probably feel lucky to have the helmets, Schmidt thought with a wry snort.

"Do you have children, Arnim?" Schmidt asked in a slow, cautious tone.

"No, I certainly find children irritating," the Swiss admitted from his place on the red velvet sofa as he reviewed his latest developments in the experimental room with the American sergeant. Barnes had survived every one of his tests: from extracting tissue, blood, and bone that regenerated in a matter of hours—or days when the bone was broken—to injecting diseases like typhus, malaria, and tuberculosis, demonstrating immunity.

Red Skull had been extremely interested in his progress, at least in the first hour of their meeting. Now he seemed to want to steer the conversation in another direction, and Zola found himself intrigued.

"You?"

"Not as far as I know," his leader replied. "Do you know what Project Medusa was?"

The scientist remained silent for a second, trying to consolidate his vague memories. "I heard something in my early years here, something about training houses for specialized spies."

"Spies?" Schmidt questioned, turning around and waving his hand dismissively in the air. "HYDRA has dozens of them. No, Arnim. Project Medusa was looking for its three gorgons: lethal women who could go undetected where our agents couldn't enter. They would be the first to focus on the evolution of this species through biochemistry."

"I imagine those training houses were where they prepared them," the Swiss commented, adjusting his glasses after listening attentively to the explanation.

"Eight large houses with twelve girls in each during our stay in Ashomia. Orphans from countries devastated by the Great War who had nowhere else to go," Red Skull continued, walking to the three-seater sofa in front of him. On his hardened face, only his eyes held anything resembling emotion ignited by the memories of his work.

Zola was perceptive, so she was able to read the program's intentions as Schmidt narrated the process, like a puzzle—if they didn't have a family, it meant they were more prone to belonging. Vulnerable creatures make perfect minds to be molded. Shrewd of her.

"I only implemented the program," Schmidt clarified sternly, resting his left arm on the armrest with his fist closed. "Werner Reinhardt was the mastermind."

"The Kraken," Zola recognized as one of the organization's top brass from the very beginning.

"Yes, before he launched his crusade for alien relics, he believed that human evolution could be achieved by pushing a person to their limits, making the most of each of their abilities. He liked reptiles." He clicked his tongue and picked up the teapot on the table, noticing from the sweet smell that it was tea.

"Anise. A cup?"

"No, thank you, doctor. Sweet things give me a bad taste," Schmidt assured, chuckling, remembering something. "Do you know what the Kraken's favorite phrase was?"

Zola shook his head, swallowing. "I'm afraid Reinhardt and I... haven't seen eye to eye, Herr."

"I see. So he's saying: If with blood, the letter doesn't enter, then with pain, discipline forms," ​​he illustrated with a sly smile without looking at the scientist. His eyes were once again on the window, capturing the distant sounds that his enhanced hearing allowed: whip cracks, angry bellows, and logs splintering on buried stones.

Even without seeing her, he could sense that there was a pent-up fury within Ophelia that helped her focus and control the precision of the whip. They both had the gift of turning anger into a source of motivation.

"For twenty long years, Zola, I trained those girls in the arts necessary to turn them into another head of HYDRA." Fencing, explosives, aim adjustment, hand-to-hand combat in different martial arts, languages, hostile survival... And in the end, out of ninety-six recruits, only three were chosen, because more than half were under fifteen years old." Red Skull closed his gloved hand and took a deep breath. "Only two of them are still alive, and one is out on the outside."

"Sarkissian," the scientist understood. Anyone who personally knew the leader of HYDRA knew he had a shadow, one who operated as his enforcer without him having to tell him. To the outside eye, it was as if they were psychically connected, but through scrutinizing eyes like Zola's, he could see evidence of a long relationship of closeness and gratitude. One could call it a debt, but Arnim would even dare say there was a genuine, almost desperate appreciation for at least one part of him.

"She was ultimately the most ambitious, the most determined, and the most aggressive... Her virtues made her worthy of becoming the Madame Hydra we had sought," Schmidt contemplated in a slow tone, laced with pride and respect, almost as if he were reading a sacred verse.

"You're not really angry with her, are you, Herr?"

"The years together have inevitably made me soften toward her, I suppose," he admitted with a long sigh as he leaned back in his luxurious seat. "My anger doesn't last long; I must admit I'm... somewhat lenient with Ophelia, but even with my goodwill, Arnim, I must also ensure that she stays on the right path with her. I can't allow twenty years of effort, with tears and blood, to be wasted because of an ounce of weakness. What kind of father would I be, then?" he quipped with his question.

Hearing the ironic tone of the Red Skull's question, Zola straightened his posture slightly on the sofa, as if it might reinforce his own position. His fingers drummed against the leather folder he carried, a gesture he always made when trying to hide his discomfort. But in the end, it was his voice that remained firm. "A wise man, no doubt. Merciful to his equals and just with an iron fist when the occasion calls for it. I'm sure Madame Hydra understands that."

"Oh, yes, she does, Zola. She knows she failed, and now she'll try to fix it."

"And how do you fix something like that?"

A grim expression crossed his lips. "With blood, as vital as it is purifying."

"Hers, or do we mean someone else's?" the Swiss man dared to ask, tapping his fingers on the cup of hot tea in his hands. It was a soothing drink, but it didn't seem to be having much effect in the presence of his leader.

"It will be whoever bleeds first, Arnim."

As night fell, Ophelia had been summoned by the Obergruppenführer to join them on a guided tour of the ground floor, where the production center was located, followed by the busiest assembly area. The prisoners worked in silence, with mechanical movements and blank stares. Their trembling hands carried the titanium bars, leaving traces of sweat that mingled with the metallic dust on their worn uniforms. Every time a supervisor passed by, their eyes were fixed on the floor, fearful of a comment or punishment. The pace never slowed, and exhaustion was a constant shadow highlighted by the Tesseract's fluorescent light.

The ultimate goal was to assemble a ship of colossal proportions capable of carrying at least three bombs to attack the capitals of different Allied countries with the pulverized energy that had been seized to fuel its use in a variety of new weapons, ranging from hand-held personal artillery to cannons, machine guns, and tank missiles.

"As you can see, the Valkyrie's production is going according to plan, even with the size of the parts," Zola recounted proudly after reaching the end of the installation. Despite their good work pace, Ophelia hadn't missed the twitch on Schmidt's lips and the critical look he cast wherever she looked.

That only meant one thing: He wasn't satisfied.

Walking behind them, the Hungarian woman wondered if Zola had noticed or was trying to highlight their progress in a way that would make the next critique kinder.

"Sarkissian," Red Skull called dryly, so the green-haired woman approached with a watchful eye, "increase production by 60% and radio the rest of our facilities to do the same."

"Yes, Obergruppenführer," the green-haired woman nodded, leaning against one of the half-finished tanks. Yes, he could answer his previous question: Zola hadn't yet learned to read Schmidt. He still considered him as unpredictable as the first time he'd lured him from his base in Kummersdorf, razing it to the ground and only letting the scientist live in exchange for his services.

"But these men..." Arnim laughed nervously at the discomfort of his superiors' piercing stares. Usually, he would have remained silent and accepted Red Skull's orders, but his request could border on the absurd when it involved the lives of the workers. Who would arm the Valkyrie and its weapons if they killed their prisoners out of exhaustion? "I don't see them having the strength..."

"Use whatever strength you have left, Doctor," Red Skull interrupted with serene coldness as he turned around. "More workers will arrive."

"Not now!" the exasperated Swiss shouted to Gefreiter Becker when he tried to show him some documents. Ophelia watched silently as he retreated, cursing under her breath and attempting to comb her barely there hair with quick, frantic movements. Her short legs had to hurry to keep up with the Red Skull.

Instead, she stayed in that corner of the factory. It was lonely and noisy, but in the sight of few people, it almost seemed distant. The metallic smell was in the air, mixed with a pungent, sharp edge, like freshly poured acid, which pierced her nose especially, leaving a trace of dizziness if she concentrated too hard. The lack of gunpowder smell continued to catch her attention; she hadn't been entirely convinced about immediately replacing bullet production with energy capsules, since in her view, the Tesseract's drive was still considered experimental, having never been demonstrated in combat.

"Madame Hydra," Becker tried again with Ophelia. The green-haired woman reached out, her hand extended, to take the enveloped documents. These are the factory expense reports, plus the inventory list of materials he'd ordered.

"Were the missing materials highlighted or are they running out?"

"I don't think so," he admitted with a grimace and tugging at the collar of his uniform under Ophelia's accusatory glare when he handed the documents back to him, "but Vorges mentioned that the steel rolls were running low after the last delivery of tanks to the Krähennest Thal fortress."

Ophelia sneered when she heard about the place the Kraken had claimed as its own. "It would be a good time for Reinhardt to return some of those gold bars he took from Berlin."

As a final parting gesture, the Red Skull had ordered the raids on the Nazi vaults and banks closest to their location as compensation for the courier's troubles. The message was clear, as Hitler declared them party traitors and sentenced them to death in a court-martial they never attended.

"Oh! This also arrived an hour ago, Madame." The soldier pulled a battered envelope from his pocket. She knew who it was from as soon as she saw the blue postcard with the silhouette of Big Ben and a crown on it.

"What an opportune time to show up, Zemo," the green-haired woman crooned, taking the letter but not opening it. "Take this back to Vorges and tell him I want the results in my office within the hour. Also, notify the control room that I'll be there in five minutes."

"Ja, Madame."

Once Becker was out of sight, she eagerly opened the letter, tearing the envelope a little more than necessary, for she wanted at least one piece of good news that day. At least Zemo hadn't let her down on that errand.

Åshild Snøfrid Svåsesdotter, Harald I's last queen, was said to be obsessed with her. He was an intense man, but very unlucky in love. Five dead wives, the last one gone because an axe blew off her head. Do you still think that thing isn't cursed?

It must smell of blood.

Oswald of East Anglia, our winner. I can't stay long, my alibi is falling apart and I'll have to disappear. Don't cry for me, maybe I'll surprise you.

F.Z.

That could only mean she'd see him soon. Ophelia felt a half-smile touch her lips, so she squeezed the letter in her hand until it crumpled and frowned, wondering: Why did the idea make her happy? A few months ago, just being with Franz in a room irritated her, and a year ago, she considered him something lower than a groveling animal.

All her mind could do was whisper: Beware, beware, beware.

A couple of hours later, the Sköll wolf finally caught the sun, devouring it and bringing with it a gloomy night where the corridors of the base almost resembled those of a haunted castle. Ophelia had been in ancient palaces and could assure you they seemed brighter than the iron cage she'd been living in for the past few months.

The prisoners had been led to their cells, where they now sought their only hours of solace and freedom while they slept for the next day. There was a persistent silence that left the green-haired woman restless in the control room where Red Skull found her with Zola after the scientist showed her the progress of his serum in the lab.

A loud bang finally shattered that tranquility, and Ophelia jumped out of her seat, quickly approaching the security cameras that broadcast different black and white images of the open cells. Her eyes widened in surprise, and she frowned before growling softly.

This was going so well, the Hungarian woman thought suspiciously as she pressed the alarm button to wake her soldiers and warn the rest of the garrison that they should be prepared.

"What's going on, Ophelia?" Red Skull questioned at her side in a demanding tone.

The green-haired woman gritted her teeth until they were almost grinding as she grabbed the microphone that linked to the industrial complex's loudspeakers. "This is Sarkissian. Prisoners out of their cells. We're under attack! I repeat, under attack, and I want it back!"

Zola watched the scene out of the corner of her eye, her shoulders tense and her stomach knotting, trying to calm her own worry by reasoning that such a rebellion would be easily handled by her soldiers, since the enemy had no weapons. They were no match for them.

"That bastard..." Ophelia hissed venomously, slamming her open hand down on the camera console that had shown her a man wearing a helmet, a brown leather jacket, and a shield painted with the American flag. "It's Rogers!"

She had seen that damn suit hundreds of times on paper, and now seeing the stars and stripes made her furious. The image of the blond man, even on the monochrome screen, seemed so vibrant it was almost blinding. To Ophelia, that figure wasn't just a man; he was a reminder of everything they had sworn to destroy. And now, here he was, trampling through their fortress like it was nothing more than sand beneath his boots.

The Red Skull had visibly frowned, though he wasn't yet shouting orders, so Ophelia assumed he still believed the situation was salvageable.

"Erskine's soldier," Zola recalled with surprise, given that a cloud of indignation had drowned out any attention from HYDRA's higher-ups to the point of ignoring him. Looking closely, Arnim could only find an outside agent. He could recognize him by the clothing, which didn't match the threadbare rags his detainees had been wearing. "It seems the Allies are desperate if they've sent a one-man army."

It was a poor attempt at a joke, since no one laughed.

"Well, look what he's done," Ophelia replied with palpable bitterness as she pulled the Luger pistol from its holster. This made Zola take a couple of steps back, unsure of the reproachful look she was giving him. "Besides... I don't remember you doing any better."

"And who was it who let him get away?" the scientist recalled through gritted teeth. Zemo had made her perfect her own pettiness.

Ophelia clicked her tongue, eager to bite back.

"Stop acting like children. I thought I was working with brilliant minds, but instead of solutions, I'm only witnessing the usual human stupidity," Red Skull admonished without looking at them in that distant and disdainful voice as he lifted the emergency buttons that activated the explosives in the factory. He pressed them one by one.

The green-haired woman straightened her back and felt the blood drain from her face as she stared in disbelief at her mentor, searching for some clue that the situation was just a test.

"No, no, no!" Zola rushed to stop Schmidt's hand when she noticed the countdown beginning. "What are you doing?"

"Our forces are inferior," she pointed out cynically, as her own men had been reduced while the prisoners now took their weapons, using them against them and setting fire to the courtyard to knock down the exit gates. The Red Skull zoomed in, showing Rogers easily defeating his soldiers and even knocking them several feet through the air with a single blow. "At least this way we'll be sure that what's not for us, won't be for them either."

"But... My job! The serum tests and him..." Zola began to babble desperately, her hand clutching her chest, her heart racing faster every time she saw the white numbers descending.

Ophelia felt Schmidt's insistent gaze on her, clearly waiting to see how she would react under pressure. The green-haired woman tugged at Arnim's jacket and led him toward the exit with a quick stride.

"Doctor, if you need to take anything. Now's the time!" Ophelia assured, grabbing his wrist to hurry him along. Running became a reality after a few steps, and even in the distance, they could hear Red Skull warning:

"You have five minutes!"

The emergency lights flashed with a reddish hue, casting jagged shadows that moved like ghosts on the steel walls. The loudspeakers blared as hurried footsteps and shouted orders echoed through the deserted corridors outside. Their footsteps were a frantic march across the bridge, synchronizing with the firing reservations the closer they got to the lab.

Chaos overtook them when they arrived at Zola's office. The doctor was sweating profusely in the greenish light as he stumbled through papers and folders into a perfumed leather briefcase. His hands trembled slightly as he handled the green vials of the serum he'd developed, placing them one by one inside a padded briefcase. Ophelia, standing by the half-open door, kept an eye on the hallway with her gun drawn, urging in an urgent voice:

"Hurry, Doctor! We don't have time." Nerves raced through her veins every time she thought that the Red Skull might be on his way out without them. How the hell would they both get out alive? Ophelia could secure her own life, but not Zola's so easily.

And if it came to it... She wouldn't hesitate to leave him.

The distant whistling of the alarm and the beeps of the countdown only fueled the sense of urgency. A few feet away, on a metal table, the body of Sergeant James Barnes lay motionless, his wrists secured by thick leather straps. His chest rose and fell unevenly, and every now and then a feverish murmur escaped his lips.

"Sergeant Barnes, 32557038," he repeated in a trance. Ophelia felt a chill as she looked into his eyes, finding them empty of any emotion. She assumed he'd run out of screams before he'd run out of hope of getting out of that place.

Taking a step closer to him, she noticed the bruises covering the left side of his face and the sweat beading his forehead. His heart-rending screams crept back into her mind like a symphony of memories that had awakened her many nights, evoking her own nocturnal demons. She, too, had been at the mercy of men in lab coats, and when she was given the title of Madame Hydra, she swore she would never allow it again.

Zola gasped, her breathing quickening. "Ready."

"What about him?" she asked, her voice low but thick with tension. Her fingers tightened on the butt of the Luger as she looked at Zola with an unreadable expression.

The scientist adjusted his fedora and lifted the black briefcase containing the serums. He answered without hesitation:

"Here we have what we need," he assured her, looking at the prisoner with false pity before sighing. "Sergeant Barnes can rest now." Your services are appreciated.

It was a phrase spoken with cruel, almost calculated indifference. The Hungarian woman didn't respond immediately, but her jaw tightened as she shifted her gaze toward Barnes, finding the man had managed to lock eyes with her. Something in Ophelia momentarily snapped, though duty compelled her to suppress it; she knew she couldn't stay in that room any longer.

She snatched the briefcase from Zola's hands and gave him a cold look. "I hope you know what you're doing, Arnim, because we won't get another chance."

As she opened the door, a flash of color caught Madame Hydra's attention. There, at the end of the corridor, Steve Rogers stood, his triangular shield resting on his left arm as his blue eyes stared directly into the Hungarian's. The intensity of recognition was unmistakable.

"You..." Ophelia muttered through gritted teeth.

She didn't hesitate. She raised the Luger and fired, forcing Captain America to raise his shield in one swift, fluid motion. The heel of her boots echoed in the hallway as she took two more steps forward, firing with each one. Her shots catching the metal created a deafening echo, and yet, he remained standing.

"Let's go!" Zola shouted from behind, her voice thick with fear and urgency.

The green-haired woman pursed her lips, clearly frustrated, and backed away reluctantly.

"We'll meet again, Rogers," she hissed with barely contained threat before turning and running to the scientist's side.

The ghost of gunfire and screams followed them as they ran toward the checkpoint to meet with Schmidt. However, as soon as they turned a corner, they found themselves facing the Red Skull transporting the Tesseract in its box. The superhuman was waiting for them with an inscrutable stare, his hands behind his back, looking almost bored with waiting.

"Have you taken everything we need?" he asked quietly, his tone dangerously neutral as the first explosion bent metal and unleashed fire beneath them.

Zola jumped with a gasp, staring in astonishment as his work burned easily, while Ophelia shrugged, more alert, looking for exits that didn't include jumping out of a fifth-story window.

"Well?"

"Everything's here, Obergruppenführer," Ophelia stated firmly as she lifted the briefcase.

Schmidt said nothing more, but his hardened expression indicated there was no room for error. With a gesture, he pointed toward the corridor leading to the exit.

"Then get moving. We don't have time to waste."

"The exit was downstairs," Zola reminded.

"Not all of them, but you have to go up to avoid the smoke," the green-haired woman agreed, coughing a little at the annoying clearing of her throat.

Schmidt didn't refute any of her ideas; he just began to ascend the stairs, so they both followed him without further question. Although they had barely gone up one level when they heard rumbling footsteps, Ophelia followed the movement of the vibrations and her eyes found two agitated figures on the other side of the bridge.

"Captain America! How exciting!" "I'm a huge fan of your movies!" Red Skull shouted, immediately stopping Rogers and... Barnes. The green-haired woman had to go over to the heated railing and squint to check, but yes, it was the sergeant, who was still swaying and looked like he might spill his gut at any moment. "So, Dr. Erskine got it after all."

Zola took the Tesseract when Schmidt offered it to her and began walking across the bridge. Captain America didn't refuse the encounter and slowly approached him with cautious steps. Ophelia felt a tingling in her fingers, tempted to grab her weapon, thinking it would be easy to take out Rogers while he was distracted, but... That meant interrupting her mentor.

And who wanted to take away the Red Skull's glory? No, she could wait. A shot in the dark wasn't worth the revenge she desired against the super soldier.

"There's not a huge improvement, but it's impressive," Schmidt admitted of Rogers' appearance once he was in front of him.

"Let's go, Doctor. There's still a long way to go, and this hell is only getting bigger," the green-haired woman instructed, firmly taking Arnim's arm to guide him forward as explosions echoed around them. The factory was on the verge of collapse; the hallways were filling with black smoke, and the fire was devouring the steel walls as if it had a life of its own.

"Stay close and don't stop!" he ordered authoritatively as they dodged pieces of metal falling from the ceiling.

Zola gasped, barely keeping up with the green-haired woman as she led him toward the car Schmidt had left. As they turned a corner, Ophelia saw the shadow of the vehicle, its shiny black paint illuminated by the surrounding flames. They finally reached the car, and Ophelia opened the driver's door with a swift movement. The Swiss man jumped into the passenger seat without a second thought, clutching the IV bag to his chest as if it were the only thing that mattered in the world.

"I advise you to put your seatbelt on," Ophelia hummed as she put hers on and started the car. The tires squealed as she pressed the accelerator.

The vehicle shot forward, and Madame Hydra wasted no time pressing the turbo button next to the steering wheel. With a roar of the engine, the car catapulted down the main corridor, dodging wreckage and columns that tumbled to the floor. Speed ​​was their best ally against the chaos surrounding them.

"This is madness! We're going to kill ourselves!" Zola shouted, clutching the seat with her eyes wide open.

"On the contrary, Arnim, this will save our necks," Ophelia replied boldly. Her gaze was fixed on the path ahead of them, while the fire seemed to follow them. The hot air distorted her vision, but not her concentration.

Finally, the vehicle shot out through a side entrance, skidding down the deserted road through the cold Austrian forest toward Poland. Fresh air filled the interior, a stark contrast to the hell they had left behind.