An icy grip snatches the air from my lungs. Slung through the sky, I lose all sense of reality. Then with a clap of thunder, the world snaps back. My chute released by the rip cord, I’m yanked fiercely upward, a puppet on strings. My harness straps cinch around my chest and thighs. A loud rustling fills my ears, wind flapping fabric. Above me, the nylon parachute is an instant blossom, and I’m floating.

Only from the fading sounds of a bomber’s engines do I recall precisely where I am, what I’m doing.

And with whom.

I quickly survey the area below, tucking my chin, my mind clearing. Moonlight casts the earth into a surprisingly detailed sketch. Tree lines thickened by undergrowth separate fields and meadows. A couple lone barns denote scatterings of farmland. Amid a pasture, the capsule’s chute is strewn on the ground. Vertically staggered, the silhouettes of the agents’ parachutes, each in turn, are about to touch down. From the delay in my drop, it appears I’ll end up in a pasture quite a distance away. I’ll have no immediate help from Bram.

I concentrate on the mechanics of my landing.

All too soon, the earth rises up. I meet it hard with my feet, collapsing to my thigh and hip to distribute the impact. Following my training skills, I scramble to stand and immediately work to reel in my parachute, still partially inflated. The consequent noises make me cringe, but they’re better than being sighted by Nazis.

Once out of my harness, I assess my surroundings. All is still and quiet but for a breeze rustling the fields.

With landscape features obscuring the agents, a question forms: What if I don’t wait to sneak away? Already separated from Bram, I could embark on my head start now.

Except, no—there isn’t a bus until morning. The whole point of my scheme is to find answers and, together with Arie, decide the next move, but before I’m ruled an enemy. Perhaps even a second target.

Best to keep to my plan.

I detach my satchel and sling it across my torso. Taking my bundled parachute to bury it with the others, I start my trek to reunite with the group. With every few strides, I glance around, hyperalert. Even the scents of dirt and meadow are intensified.

After I walk what seems a hundred yards, a fuzzy halo of light emerges up ahead, from beyond a wall of blackberry bushes, paired with a man’s voice. I stop.

Seasoned agents wouldn’t dare use a flashlight nor speak above a whisper—would they? Or are they just so confident the vicinity is clear?