Paul grabbed a jagged piece of metal and hauled himself up from the abyss. Water streamed from his completely soaked clothes as he finally collapsed onto solid ground.
His breathing came fast and ragged, his eyes darting toward the sounds beside him.
"Heydrich," Paul muttered.
A low groan answered.
Paul forced himself upright and pulled Heydrich to his feet beside him.
They stood facing the inferno that had swallowed the factory. What remained of the building burned like a dying beast, its flames tearing through the night sky.
"Michael…" Heydrich began, his fist clenching, anger and grief twisting his features.
Paul tilted his head slightly, his jaw tightening. A dangerous glint flickered in his eyes.
Then they heard shouting.
"Workers?" Heydrich asked quietly.
Both men moved at once, slipping behind the same truck they had used earlier for cover.
Through the narrow gap of the truck door, they saw them.
Black cars stood only meters away. A large group of men poured out, pistols already in their hands.
"Not workers. Agents," Paul whispered, already scanning for an escape route.
The men, all clad in black suits, advanced toward the ruined building, the flames now burning lower but no less menacing. They spread out, shouting commands, their voices cutting through the crackling fire.
Then louder shouts erupted.
"There is still someone alive under the rubble!"
Paul felt a chill race down his spine. He understood instantly.
Both he and Heydrich spoke at the same time.
"Michael…"
Paul reached into his breast pocket. Empty.
"Fuck. I lost my gun," he said, running a hand through his wet hair.
He clasped his hands over his head, forcing his racing thoughts into order.
Then Heydrich tapped his shoulder.
"How about you use this?" he said calmly.
Paul turned. His smile spread slowly.
"So this was the same truck," he murmured, taking what Heydrich held out to him.
Two silhouettes emerged from the smoke.
Some of the agents froze, eyes widening as recognition struck. Faces they knew from documents and newspapers.
Others were still focused on the rubble, trying to free the survivor they had found. Michael.
Then the shots erupted.
Loud. Raw. Merciless.
One agent stumbled forward, reaching for something that had been hurled from the building. He wiped the dust away.
A book.
A second later, a subtle movement.
The book fell back to the ground.
Crimson liquid soaked its pages as a lifeless body collapsed partially over it.
Paul and Heydrich stepped out from cover, American made submachine guns tucked beneath their arms.
For a single heartbeat, silence reigned.
Then hell broke loose.
They split apart, moving in opposite directions, using rubble and crates as cover while unleashing devastating fire toward the agents.
Men fell everywhere under the sudden assault. Some managed to regain their composure, diving for cover and firing back.
On top of a familiar crane not far away, another fight unfolded.
Gustaf had been lying low the entire time. He had watched Paul, Heydrich and Michael take out the guard. He had watched them enter the building. And he had watched the explosion, horror reflected in his eyes.
Yet he had also seen two small silhouettes leap from the burning structure.
For a moment, panic seized him. His mind went blank.
Then, before he could steady himself, he heard it.
Metal scraping behind him.
A man in a black suit stood only a few steps away, the fabric of his coat fluttering in the wind. In his hand gleamed a large, menacing knife. He smiled at Gustaf with open malice. A scar ran across his face, illuminated only by the distant fire.
High above the ground, on the lonely crane, the two men clashed.
The fight erupted in desperate silence, broken only by the clang of metal beneath their feet.
Out of the corner of his eye, Gustaf saw another figure climbing the ladder toward the platform. He would arrive soon.
There was no time to think.
The knife flashed toward him. Gustaf leaned back instinctively, the blade passing his eyes by mere centimeters.
He answered with a heavy punch to the man's side. The agent groaned, staggering.
Blood sprayed from his mouth as he lunged again.
Another punch. Another stab.
This time, blood ran down Gustaf's arm.
The agent's eyes flicked sideways in triumph as the second man neared the top of the ladder.
Gustaf clenched his teeth and shook his head in defiance.
"I can't fall here," he shouted. "I will not fall here!"
He surged forward, slamming into the agent with all his strength. In the collision, the knife was torn from the man's grip and skidded across the metal platform with a sharp clang.
Gustaf pressed the advantage, delivering one punch after another. The agent was forced back, arms raised in defense.
Then Gustaf caught movement from the side.
A fist came flying toward his head.
He ducked just in time. The blow smashed into a metal pipe with a dull crack.
The second agent had arrived.
The fight turned into two against one.
Drop after drop of blood fell from Gustaf's sleeve as the struggle entered its second, far more dangerous phase.
Below, the same liquid flooded the shattered hall of the factory.
The agents, though trained, were easy prey for Paul and Heydrich. The two men moved like predators through the ruins.
Paul sprinted forward, then suddenly dropped into a slide, his submachine gun nearly scraping the ground. He pulled the trigger, rounds tearing into the legs of a man hiding beneath a truck.
The man screamed and collapsed.
Paul rose in one fluid motion, turning as another agent rushed through a gaping hole in the half burned building, now little more than scorched brick and twisted steel.
Paul fired.
The rounds struck the man square in the chest. He managed a single, wild shot before collapsing lifelessly.
Paul twisted aside, but the bullet still grazed his torso, ripping open a shallow wound.
He barely felt it.
Pain had become distant. His body was heavy with exhaustion. Blood soaked his clothes, still damp from the water.
Most of it was not his.
Still, fatigue gnawed at him relentlessly as the fight dragged on. Before he could even think of rest, the screaming returned.
"These bastards," Paul snarled, his jaw clenching with boundless fury.
Some of the agents had managed to drag Michael from the rubble. Under constant fire, they had pulled him behind cover. Now they were tormenting him deliberately, using his pain to lure Paul and Heydrich out.
A sudden noise came from Paul's right.
He spun instantly, raising his weapon, only to lower it again a split second later.
"They have him behind that wall," Paul said. His voice was cold. Distant.
"A plan?" Heydrich asked, eyes fixed on the structure.
Paul exhaled slowly. His gaze drifted upward through a gaping hole in the ceiling, toward the night sky. The stars were barely visible, drowned out by the glow of the lingering flames.
"You know, Heydrich," Paul said quietly, "I'm so tired of plans."
He stepped out of cover, moving straight toward the screams.
Heydrich reached out instinctively, trying to stop him. Then he saw Paul's face.
He froze.
It was a look he had never seen before in his life. Not rage. Not focus.
Gluttony.
A gaze that promised to devour everything in its path if you met it for too long.
Paul moved forward. Slowly at first. Then faster.
In a fraction of a second, part of a head rose above the wall.
Paul fired once.
The man dropped instantly.
Paul broke into a run. He vaulted onto a crate, hurled himself across the hall, and grabbed the hot, crumbling bricks of the wall with bare hands.
With one final pull, he launched himself over it.
Below him stood three men.
They stared up at him as if they were looking at a ghost.
And in that night, the Ghost of Ávila returned.
The massacre returned.
Paul's true, primal self emerged.
He twisted midair with brutal precision, filling their bodies with bullets. They never even had time to scream.
Paul landed behind the wall, his leather shoe coming down on a corpse, blood soaking into it.
He did not care.
His gaze moved from the dying man at his feet to the opening in the wall, where Heydrich had appeared, covering the gap.
The man on the ground was in terrible condition.
"Michael," Paul said sharply, kneeling beside him. He checked his pulse at the burned skin of his neck.
A beat.
Then another.
"He's still alive," Paul said, without looking up, speaking to Heydrich as the fire crackled around them.
"Good. Then let's get him and ourselves out of here," Heydrich said.
"Yes…" Paul began.
Something struck the ground.
Both men froze. They knew that sound.
They straightened instantly and threw themselves away with everything they had left.
Another massive explosion tore through the area.
Paul hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. He forced himself up immediately, eyes sweeping through smoke and debris, searching for the source.
Then, through the settling dust, he saw them.
Another group of agents.
Paul did not look at all of them.
Only two.
"Gimpel," Heydrich said, following Paul's line of sight, recognizing one of the men at the front of the group. "That son of a bitch betrayed us. It all makes sense now…"
But Heydrich had misread Paul's gaze.
Paul was focused on one man alone.
The man wore an expensive brown suit. His blond hair was combed with meticulous care. A dreadful smile rested on his handsome face, calm and confident amid the chaos.
The group spread out methodically.
Then the already damaged ceiling groaned.
The sound grew louder. Slower. Then sudden.
A large section collapsed.
Dust exploded into the air. Heydrich raised his arm instinctively, burying his face against it.
Paul did not move.
He stood perfectly still, his eyes never leaving the man who now stood separated from the others by falling debris.
Paul's legs began to move.
Heydrich noticed and stepped after him.
Paul stopped.
He stretched out his hand, catching Heydrich's attention. Their eyes met.
"You take the other group," Paul said.
His eyes were wide. His voice calm. Absolute.
The tone carried such authority that even Heydrich hesitated for a heartbeat.
Then he nodded slowly and turned away, heading for the remaining agents.
Paul kept walking.
Straight toward the man in the brown suit.
Both men walked through the rubble, the ruins of what had once been Klausemann's headquarters, with an unsettling elegance. An aura of authority radiated from them. Their guns hung lowered at their sides as they drew closer and closer, near enough to discern every detail of the other's face.
The wind intensified, as if reacting to the pressure the two men emitted.
Clothes and hair fluttered in the gusts while Paul slowly inclined his head.
He exhaled.
An unidentifiable mixture of emotions left his lungs with that breath.
My friend. My rival. My enemy. Across two lifetimes, he thought.
His gaze lingered on the face before him, so strikingly similar to the one he had known. The one he had despised.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Fire crackled softly in the background. Somewhere far away, sirens wailed, muffled, far from the harbour of New York city.
Paul opened his mouth slowly. His tongue felt heavy, each syllable a weight of its own.
"James."
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