1944, Berlin, Third Reich

Days like this one weren’t easy, but certainly less hard than patrolling. A tavern in Berlin, filled with officials drinking and laughing, where he was supposed to meet his contact. Franz Wagner was the name he was known by, his real name, Frank Fletcher, had been long buried away, destroyed with any proof of his affiliation to the Allies, anything to avoid detection. Sometimes he got so enveloped in the persona and the sense of camaraderie it took an assassination for him to remember who these monsters really were. Not his friends, not his allies, not his coworkers. Vicious killers.

Getting up, he excuses himself. “I need a smoke.” He says to the man sitting by him, finishing his beer and walking out. It was a bad habit, one he’d picked up the first month of his job, now a year later he smoked a pack a day to cope with the stress. Lighting it with the zippo tucked in his uniform, Frank leans against the cold wall, breathing out the smoke through his nostrils. By now it must be midnight, a surprisingly quiet evening save for the bustle inside.