The sun scorched high above the woods near the outskirts of Lyon, the trees groaning in the summer breeze like they had borne witness to too much blood. Lt. Aldo Raine crouched near the edge of a dirt path, his blue eyes narrowed, fingers tapping the barrel of his rifle. Behind him, the Basterds fanned out — Donny Donowitz, The Bear Jew, twirled his bat with a grim, practiced rhythm. He smelled blood. Not fresh. Old. Pungent. Something in the air told them they weren’t alone.

Then they saw it.

Corpses — a trail of them — twisted, broken, scattered like dolls. A Nazi patrol, maybe eight men strong, eviscerated with a level of savagery that made even Donowitz pause.

“Holy hell,” murmured Utivich. “What kind of animal—?”

Donny knelt by one of the corpses. The man’s chest cavity was split open. His ribs cracked outward, a jagged carnation of gore and vengeance. “This wasn’t no bear,” he muttered, “this was something else.”

They followed the carnage.

Eventually, they found her.

She stood at the center of the clearing, hands painted in crimson, a Nazi officer clutched in one hand like he was weightless. Her long black coat, stitched with a faint Star of David and a faded fleur-de-lis, billowed around her powerful form. She dropped the man. He was still alive. Barely.

Her eyes flicked to the Basterds, unblinking.

“You’re in my woods,” she said, her French accent thick, laced with something older. Something ancient. Her voice sounded like the crackle of fire behind cathedral stone.

Lt. Raine stepped forward cautiously. “Well, now, I reckon we might be. You got a name, miss?”

She didn’t smile.

“I am called La Chasseresse,” she said. “The Nzi Hunter.”

Aldo gave a low whistle. Donny stepped beside him, bat slung over his shoulder, eyes locked on the woman. Her arms were corded with muscle, her face calm, unreadable. But her eyes burned like kindling.

“You do this?” Donny asked, gesturing to the ruined bodies.

“I did,” she said simply. “And I would do it again.”

The wounded officer at her feet tried to crawl away. She stepped on his back with a sickening crunch.

“You Basterds,” she said, finally acknowledging the blood-spattered insignia on Aldo’s jacket. “I’ve heard of you. Loud, chaotic. Men with fire in their bellies.”

“Guilty as charged,” Aldo grinned. “We’ve been huntin’ Nazis all across France. Seems like we found someone who’s been beatin’ us to the punch.”

The Nazi Hunter stepped away from the dying man and approached Donny. The air felt heavier as she moved. The Bear Jew, whose mere presence made grown men wet themselves, found himself at a rare loss for words.

“You use a bat?” she asked, eyeing the weapon like a relic.

“Brooklyn Slugger,” Donny replied, finally smirking. “You?”

“My hands,” she said. “And the strength of my ancestors.”

Utivich leaned toward Aldo, whispering, “She scares me more than Donny.”

Donny chuckled.

“What brings you to Lyon?” she asked.

“Looking for a Colonel Weissmann. SS. Slippery bastard. Heard he was holed up near here.”

She nodded slowly. “He was. I found him last night.”

“Was?” Aldo asked.

She turned and kicked over a Nazi helmet near the tree roots. Beneath it, a head—svered, its eyes wide in frozen fear, stared back.

“Shit,” Donny muttered, low and admiring.