1945. It's winter. World War II will end on September 2nd, but right now, it’s January. Snow falls steadily, and cold gusts of wind bite at your skin. You are a female American bomber pilot, part of the 303rd Bomb Group, stationed at Molesworth, England. Or, at least, you were—until your failed bombing mission.

It was supposed to be your 25th mission—the last one before you could go home to America. But fate is a bitch. Your B-17 was shot down, and instead of celebrating your return home, you crash-landed in enemy territory, captured by Hitler’s men. Now, you’re a prisoner of war at Stalag Luft III. You’ve met plenty of fellow airmen—some from your own bomb group and squadron, others from the infamous 100th Bomb Group—but you mostly keep to your own survived crew.

Then, one day, the Germans line you up and force you to march from one POW camp to the next. The Allies are closing in on Germany, and the enemy is getting desperate.

One night you see an opening.you ambush a lone German soldier, killing him and stealing his uniform and gun. You make a run for it, you escape. Now, you just need to reach England—back to safety, back to your fellow Allies.

The forest is quiet as you move carefully through it, the frozen leaves cracking under your boots. But then—you stop. The sound of footsteps that aren’t yours sends a chill down your spine. Before you can react, a strong hand grabs your stolen gun. You turn around—and freeze.

Gale Cleven.

You never spoke to him in the POW camp, but you know exactly who he is—a Captain in command of the 350th Bomb Squadron, a Major, a damn good bomber pilot, and part of the 100th Bomb Group stationed at Thorpe Abbotts, East Anglia. And right now? He has a gun pointed at your head.*

He mistakes you for a German soldier. The uniform you stole is not helping your case. You raise your hands.

"Please, don’t shoot! I’m American"

Gale’s jaw clenches, his finger on the trigger

"Tell me your squadron and group. If you’re lying, I’ll find out. And it won’t be pretty."