"Wait."
"Wait."
"Wait."
"NOW!" Hasso shouted into his radio, issuing the order to his driver as well. The tank vibrated as its engine roared to life, then lurched forward, crashing through greenery and trees.
All around the small clearing, tanks began to emerge from the shadows between the trunks, their metal silhouettes glimmering in the morning sun.
Their target was unmistakable. A military convoy of trucks and armored cars rolled along the narrow road below.
From the front, the rear, and the flanks, German tanks appeared. They did not fire. Their presence alone was enough, sending a shiver through the surprised soldiers sitting inside the trucks.
Silence.
The column halted. The tanks halted. They simply stood there, frozen in a strange, almost staged tableau.
Slowly, cautiously, a hand emerged from the open window of the foremost truck. Then another. Soon more hands followed, weapons clattering to the ground as they were thrown from the vehicles.
Hasso smiled faintly as he watched the scene unfold.
German soldiers advanced, slowly and methodically, weapons raised, still vigilant.
"Felix, you and the others search that truck over there," a Hauptmann muttered, leading the rest of the men toward the front vehicle.
"Step out!" he shouted, raising his gun toward the driver's window.
The man inside did not understand the words, but the gesture was clear enough. He climbed out of the truck and dropped to the ground, raising his hands once more.
"Hah," the Hauptmann laughed. The soldiers around him joined in.
The French soldier lowered his head in shame, clenching his teeth.
"What is it, Hauptmann?" a voice asked from behind.
The young Hauptmann recognized it instantly. He spun around and snapped to attention.
"Generalmajor von Manteuffel!" he saluted.
"Why is the truck still not cleared?" Hasso asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Well, we had to apprehend…" the Hauptmann began.
"Then do it now!" Hasso cut him off, his voice sharp.
"Yes, sir." The Hauptmann hurried off, signaling to his men as they ran toward the rear of the truck.
Hasso waited, surrounded by officers and soldiers. Moments later, French soldiers were dragged out one after another and thrown onto the ground.
Then the Hauptmann returned, a triumphant gleam in his eyes.
"Cleared!" he shouted.
Hasso nodded and walked toward the back of the truck, accompanied by the officers of his division.
The Hauptmann stood waiting, gripping the green tarp that covered something large in the cargo bed.
At Hasso's nod, he pulled it away in one smooth motion.
For a moment, everyone squinted as the sun reflected directly off what lay before them.
Hasso's lips slowly curled upward until they formed an unmistakable smile, a golden gleam mirrored in his eyes.
Without looking away, he spoke.
"Contact them. We have fulfilled our part. Now it is their turn."
An officer nodded and quickly walked off.
"Unload all the gold!" Hasso suddenly shouted. "Every truck except this one."
Days earlier.
"Gustaf."
Paul cleared his throat and motioned the man over with a subtle wink. Gustaf stepped forward to the table, his hands clasped behind his back.
"The Ghost Squad will be expanded," Paul said calmly. "I intend to establish an unprecedented elite unit. A force made entirely of killers." He studied Gustaf closely, leaning back in his chair."Are you a killer?" Paul asked quietly.
"If you want me to be," Gustaf replied. "But I would rather focus on your safety."
"And you will continue to do so. That remains one of the squad's responsibilities," Paul said. "But another part will be tasked with special operations. The first will take place in a few days, if everything goes according to plan."
Paul tilted his head toward another man still seated behind the table, silent, watching the exchange.
Raeder smiled faintly."I am certain this operation will succeed."
"It will," Paul agreed. "But I want you to supervise the new team I have created for their first mission. As co leader."
Paul turned back to Gustaf, who narrowed his eyes.
"May I ask who will be leading the team?" he asked, his displeasure obvious.
"A new Ghost," Paul replied. "A man who died at Dunkirk. Declared dead along with nearly his entire unit."
Paul gestured toward the door.
It opened at once, footsteps echoing down the corridor. An older man stepped into the doorway, wearing a standard Wehrmacht uniform, nothing distinctive about him at first glance.
"Formerly Oberst Meindl. May he rest peacefully," Paul said, raising his hand slightly. "Today, we welcome Meindl, commander of the Ghost Squadron."
Meindl stepped forward. He was almost as tall as Gustaf, though slightly slimmer.
Without hesitation, he extended his hand. Gustaf stared at it for a moment before reluctantly shaking it.
"Meindl," Paul said. The man straightened instantly. "You have shown what you were capable of once. In this new life, I will expect even more. As commander of the Ghost Squad, you will lead nameless men into the most dangerous and unforgiving missions imaginable. If you die, no one will even weep for you. Are you prepared to accept your first mission?"
Meindl hesitated, lowering his gaze. Then he looked up again.
"I am, sir."
Paul nodded. He opened a drawer and pulled out a single sheet of paper.
Present
Meindl stepped out of his truck, a group of soldiers following behind him. All of them were tall, their caps pulled low over their faces.
"Generalmajor von Manteuffel," Meindl said, offering no salute.
"Ghost leader," Hasso replied, shaking his hand.
"We will take over now," Meindl said, gesturing toward the group of French soldiers kneeling beside the road, Wehrmacht troops encircling them.
"Fine," Hasso said, motioning for his men to step back.
The Ghosts advanced toward the prisoners. The French soldiers did not understand what was happening, fear and confusion etched across their faces.
Suddenly, Meindl raised his hand.
The French soldier in front of him closed his eyes, bracing himself. Instead of a shot, Meindl grabbed him by the collar.
"Your clothes," Meindl said coldly, locking eyes with him and tugging at the fabric.
"Pardon?" the soldier asked timidly, not understanding.
"Niemand?" Meindl called out sharply, scanning the ranks.
"Yes?" one of the Ghosts stepped forward.
"One of your dozen languages is French, right?" Meindl asked, almost casually.
Niemand gave him a brief, puzzled look, then turned to the prisoners and began speaking fluent French.
Minutes later, the Ghosts who had arrived in German uniforms now wore French ones. The French soldiers knelt by the roadside in nothing but their underwear.
"White like your flag, French," Meindl mocked as he climbed into the foremost truck.
"You drive, Niemand," he said, fixing him with a hard stare. "You are the highest ranking officer now. Remember that."
Niemand nodded once. Dressed in a French officer's uniform, he climbed into the driver's seat and gripped the wheel.
The tires spun, throwing up dust and sand as the truck lurched forward. One by one, the rest of the column followed. In every vehicle sat one or two German soldiers, clad in French uniforms, their helmets low, their rifles resting casually in their hands.
From a distance, it looked like a retreating French convoy. Up close, it was anything but.
The kneeling prisoners were left behind by the roadside, half naked, silent, watching as their own uniforms disappeared down the road with the engines' fading growl.
Meindl stood in the open cargo bed of the lead truck, one hand braced against the frame, eyes fixed ahead. No insignia marked him. No rank, no name. Just another French officer among many.
The Ghosts did not speak.
The convoy rolled on, swallowed by dust and trees, carrying gold, lies, and men who officially no longer existed.
Hasso's tanks rolled into the opposite direction...
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