Sidearm: three bullets in the chamber and a handful more in his pocket. Overcoat. Slender wooden box, the only real possession Rebeka had grabbed from their room in Łódź as they fled. He felt foolish—their parents had hidden it in their jewelry box, after all, rather than nailing to their doorway—but keeping their great-grandparents’ mezuzah near his heart let him pretend their family was alive and protected still.

Rebeka pulled her knit cap low over her brow and gave him a nod. God, that girl was ready for any of his stupid schemes. After this, he’d have to get her further west, toward safety. He couldn’t let her tag along with him toward the end.

Shadows slid over the weak light that had softened the truck’s canvas top, and they crawled to a stop. It was just like any other errand he’d run back in Berlin, he told himself. Gather everything he needed and get out without making eye contact. Only instead of picking up bow rosin and matzo meal, there were men he needed to kill.

He checked the bullet chamber on his P38 and took a deep breath.

The door to the cab slammed shut, and Liam’s footsteps circled the truck. There was a low exchange in German, then a single soft tap against the side of the bed: Liam’s signal. Only one guard, then. A the smile spread across Daniel’s face.

“Yes, if you must, it’s right in here,” Liam was saying. His German accent was slightly better, thanks to Daniel’s coaching, but it wouldn’t get them far. “Step inside—”

The truck bed shuddered as the guard climbed in.

He was just on the other side of the crates. Daniel could hear him breathing, a slight, huffy sound, like the damp autumn air wasn’t agreeing with him. It always pleased Daniel to remember the Nazis were humans—not that they were deserving of empathy, but that they breathed, they got sick, they too could be weak or dumb. They had soft tissue and organs that rarely tolerated bullets and blades.

Daniel stepped out behind the guard as soon as he passed the stack of crates and wrapped his free arm around the man’s mouth. Before the thought to scream could even form in the guard’s brain, Daniel’s knife punctured his throat.

A quick slash was too good for him. He dug deeper and twisted the handle. Only total tracheal collapse would do.