Daniel squeezed back as the truck stopped, channeling every last bit of his terror through their linked hands. It had to go somewhere. Any minute now, the guards would be poking around the wheel wells. He should be hearing the dogs’ snouts snuffling on the other side of the canvas covering. But there was only stillness. No movement. The dull patter of Liam’s German, too warm and chewy to fool anyone.

Daniel reached for the knife he’d taken from an SS officer’s corpse. Meine Ehre heißt Treue, the blade read. My honor is loyalty. He liked the idea of the Nazis’ own motto, declaring their unwavering conviction, being the last thing they saw before he slit their throats. A reminder that for fascism, there was only one cure.

The truck eased back into gear and moved forward.

Rebeka and Daniel exhaled as one, and he let go of the dagger’s handle. “Looks like your American might know what he’s doing after all,” she said.

“He isn’t my American.” But Daniel couldn’t keep a flush of pride from his tone.

“You like him, though.”

Daniel glanced at her sideways. They’d never discussed it before, the way he always made excuses when her unmarried friends invited him to dinner. Rebeka was too observant, though, for her own good. She always seemed to know things without being told.

“He’s very . . . determined.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Like you.”

Determined, and a little frightening. Being around Liam and his chaotic energy felt like standing outside in a thunderstorm. He was obsessive, relentless, clever—and yet beneath it beat a fragile heart that truly wanted to do some good. It pained Daniel how much he could relate to that, how much he wanted to see Liam pull off his crazy scheme. And what he’d said that morning—his confession offered like a secret handshake . . .

But it didn’t matter. There could be nothing waiting for Daniel on the other side of vengeance. Siegen was just one step closer to the end: to finding Kreutzer, Gerstein, Himmler, and the rest. His purpose would be served.

The panel to the front cab cracked open. “Get ready,” Liam said.

They shimmied out from behind the crates and gathered up their equipment. When they’d stolen this truck a few weeks ago, they’d been dismayed to find most of the food inside was potted meat of uncertain but vaguely porcine origin, which seemed cruel enough the Nazis must have done it on purpose. The crates of dehydrated milk helped, but after two weeks, Daniel would have gladly starved rather than force another draft of powdery dairy-water down his throat. He jammed the lid back on the crate where they’d stashed oats from the sheep barn and inventoried his gear.