The mission orders were brief, yet heavy as iron:
Intercept General Antoni Radek, Warsaw. Secure or silence. He must not reach Paris.
Christian read the words again and again, though he already knew them by heart. The general carried intelligence on German troop movements, plans the Reich had not yet shared. If Radek delivered his knowledge to the Allies, the war might shift before it even began.
Herr Müller had spoken only once before dismissing him:
"Your training ends here, Wolfe. Now you must prove yourself. Shadows earn their place in blood."
It was still dark when Christian boarded the Warsaw-bound train at Kraków station. Snow hissed against the roof, a muffled rhythm that matched the hammering of his heart. He wore a plain wool coat, cap low, a folded newspaper in hand. To any passerby, he was just another traveler in winter.
But inside his pocket, he carried a pistol wrapped in cloth and a small vial of clear liquid, the kind the Abwehr promised could silence any man in minutes.
The intelligence had been correct. General Radek was on board, traveling under disguise. Not in uniform, but Christian recognized him from the briefing: broad-shouldered, silver at the temples, eyes like granite. He sat in a private compartment, flanked by two guards. Both men wore civilian coats, but their bulging jackets betrayed pistols.
It was like storming a fortress with bare hands. Christian moved through the train with calculated patience, pretending to read his paper, pretending to sip weak coffee. His eyes, however, studied every reflection in the windows, every shadow in the corridor.
At the third carriage, a guard stepped out to light a cigarette. Christian brushed past him, feigning a stumble. In that instant, he slipped a razor-thin blade from his sleeve and sliced the man's coat pocket, letting his pistol clatter softly to the floor. The guard cursed, bent to pick it up. Christian kept walking. His pulse roared in his ears. One mistake and the mission would be over before it began.
When the train slowed near a rural junction, Christian made his move. He pushed open the compartment door, pistol raised. The general looked up in shock. The nearest guard reached for his weapon but Christian fired first. The shot cracked like thunder, glass shattering as the bullet punched through the man's chest. The second guard lunged, grappling for Christian's arm. The two crashed against the compartment wall, fists and steel colliding in brutal rhythm.
Christian head butted him, teeth crunching under the blow. He shoved the pistol under the man's ribs and pulled the trigger. The guard gasped, blood soaking his shirt, and fell to the floor. Radek pressed himself against the window, frozen but defiant. "You'll never…" he began.
Christian silenced him with the cold weight of the pistol barrel under his chin.
But it was too late. The shots had rung through the carriage. Passengers screamed. A conductor shouted in Polish. Boots thundered down the corridor. Christian cursed under his breath. He grabbed Radek by the collar, dragging him out of the compartment and into the narrow passage. Bullets splintered the doorframe as
Polish officers rushed from the far end of the carriage.
The train lurched violently. Christian shoved Radek forward, forcing him through the panicked crowd. A woman shrieked. Someone tried to block him; he slammed them aside with the butt of his pistol.
At the rear of the train, the officers closed in. He had seconds left.
The countryside outside blurred past, white fields streaked with black trees. The wind howled through the rattling windows.
Christian kicked open the rear door of the last carriage. The freezing night air bit his face like knives. Below, the tracks screamed against the wheels. Radek fought, thrashing against his grip. "You won't make it out alive, foolish dog!"
Christian's eyes burned cold. He pressed the pistol to Radek's chest and whispered, "No… but you won't live to betray my country." He fired.
The general jerked, the light fading from his eyes as blood soaked his coat. Christian shoved the body off the train, watching it vanish into the snow below.
Gunfire erupted behind him. Bullets sparked off the steel frame. One grazed Christian's shoulder, burning hot. He stumbled forward, clutching his wound.
With trembling hands, he grabbed Radek's satchel. The prize Müller wanted.
He didn't have the time to look in the satchel, he stuffed the satchel under his coat and leapt from the train just as another volley screamed past his head. The world exploded into snow, ice, and darkness. When Christian staggered to his feet, ears ringing, the train was already a fading roar in the distance.
His coat was torn, shoulder bleeding, but the satchel was still in his hand.
The mission was not clean. It was not precise. But Müller's words echoed in his head: Shadows earn their place in blood. Tonight, Christian Wolfe had earned his place. Yet as he stumbled through the frozen fields with the satchel pressed to his chest, he felt none of the pride the Abwehr promised. Only the weight of a dead man's eyes, still burning in his memory.