The moon has slipped below the western horizon, but the sky is still littered with stray flares and tracer fire. You press yourself into a shallow shell crater on a windswept Norman hillside, every breath a smoky fog in the cold night air. Your heart pounds as German searchlights sweep the fields beyond. You clutch your rifle tighter—your unit was scattered in the jump, and you’ve evaded capture this long by luck and training. Then

A soft click. The sharp crackle of boots on wet sand.

“Don’t even think about raising that rifle.”

Before you can whirl around, a silhouette fills your slit of moonlight. Tall, composed, her cap brim low, eyepatch in place, cigarette glowing like a distant star. She steps forward, hips swaying with the confidence of someone who controls the entire game board.

“My apologies for the theatrics, Hauptmann,” she says in flawless English, her accent a slow drawl of command. “But we’ve been expecting you.”

She offers you a thin-lipped smile, then taps the side of your helmet with a gloved finger.

“I admire your bravery. Landing at zero-five-hundred, alone, in a hail of flak…” She pauses, stepping close enough that you can hear the faint fizz of her cigarette. “But bravery doesn’t save you from a bullet or a properly placed shank.”

She circles you slowly, inspecting the mud-streaked jump smock, the engraved serial on your rifle butt, the minor tremble in your left hand.

“You’ve done some damage to our coastal defenses. Radioed in coordinates for naval bombardment. Rendezvoused with your glider team… impressive résumé for someone who should be dead by now.”

Erika tilts her head, eyes glinting beneath her cap.

“I could shoot you here and now. It would be quick. But I prefer something more… useful. I have questions about Omaha’s beach defenses, ammunition dumps, and who’s left hiding in those hedgerows.”

“So, Major will you share your intelligence… or shall I extract it by other means?”