The prisoners slept fitfully, their shackles and gags not lending themselves to slumber.

The emergence of dawn came as a relief, and even though several soldiers came for them before noon, the wait seemed endless. Boyd used Sage to communicate subvocally with Kelly just enough to keep her spirits up, and to share the time, since without this knowledge he knew its passage would seem interminable to her. If only she hadn't been gagged, they could have had a two-way conversation, but this was not to be.

Boyd watched several World War II documentaries on his lenses as time marched on, and he read a number of detailed summaries and analyses of the war, knowing that much more than their lives might ride on this knowledge. Projections onto his contacts required only a trickle of power, but he hated to use any.

At long last four SS soldiers unchained them and pulled them from the room, removing their gags and the shackles around their ankles, but leaving their hands cuffed. They led the prisoners away from the encampment, past scientists who were conversing and preparing additional useless experiments to try on the cube.

"Wait here, Herr Boyd," said one of the men in German when they had reached a nearby clearing, devoid of human activity. "I'm taking the other prisoners to use the outhouse and for food. You'll be next. And then Colonel Zimmerman will join you."

Kurt Hahn translated for the two Americans, not knowing that Boyd had a magical device affixed to his thigh that could translate German and communicate with Kelly, in addition to numerous other capabilities he would find nearly impossible to believe.

The guard led the other prisoners away, leaving Boyd with three SS soldiers alone in the small clearing. They each eyed him with what looked like utter contempt.

"Do any of you speak English?" asked the American prisoner after several long seconds of tense silence. There was no response, or even any indication that he had been heard.

"You guys don't happen to know edelweiss from the Sound of Music do you?" continued Boyd to amuse himself. "It's a movie—a period piece," he added helpfully, making sure not to mention that the Nazis were the villains. "We could do a singalong."

The soldiers' scowls intensified. "By making into Atlantis Room," said one of the three in broken English. "We look like fools. Du wirst zahlen!" he finished, which Sage translated as you will pay.

Before Boyd could digest these words, the soldier delivered a savage, viper-like strike at his skull with the butt of his automatic rifle—but Boyd's skull had moved in the fraction of a second it took for the blow to arrive, and the German hit nothing but air.

Astonished, as if he had witnessed an optical illusion, the soldier instantly followed up with two additional lightning-fast thrusts of his rifle, which Boyd also dodged with superhuman agility. The American's enhanced musculature and reaction time made the athletic soldier appear to be moving in slow motion, and Boyd deftly sidestepped a fourth jab while sweeping the soldier's feet out from under him.

The two other soldiers charged at the prisoner, and even though Boyd's hands were locked together, he easily blocked an incoming fist and spun around to dodge a knife coming toward his leg, elbowing one of the men in the face, blocking a second blow, and sweeping one of the two men to the ground. The only German left standing tried to dive on Boyd and turn it into a wrestling match, but the American sidestepped the dive and used the man's momentum against him, driving him into the ground.

The first soldier sprang to his feet to reengage when the voice of Bruno Zimmerman bellowed through the woods. "Enough!" he shouted in German. "Disengage!"

The SS colonel entered the small clearing with a gun shoved into Kelly Connolly's back. "Nicely done, Herr Boyd," he said. "Now raise your hands while my men retrieve their weapons and retreat."

Boyd smiled. "Of course, Colonel. We were just getting some exercise."

Zimmerman allowed himself an icy smile as his men hastily retreated to a safe distance. Two more soldiers entered the clearing and escorted Major Hahn and Kelly Connolly to Boyd's side, but Otto was not in sight.

"What is this all about, Colonel?" asked Boyd.

"Your prediction has been confirmed," said Zimmerman. "The submarine base in Naples was attacked exactly as you described."

"I never had a doubt," said Boyd. "So why did your men attack me? I've proven to be what I say I am, the greatest weapon your Fuhrer could ever want. Surely you can trust me now."

Zimmerman shook his head. "Less now than ever before, Herr Boyd."

"I don't understand."

"Of course you do," said the colonel. "You made a prediction that turned out to be uncannily accurate. So there are two possible explanations. One, that you're clairvoyant, as you say. Or two, that you're a talented spy, a key piece in a game of chess being played by the Allies. They simply had to feed you detailed intel on their Naples operation so you could prove your supernatural abilities. Taking special care to obliterate a church and a hospital to make your details come to life."

"You'll believe anything rather than admit clairvoyance is real, won't you?" said Boyd sadly.

"A brilliant plan, really," continued the colonel as if Boyd hadn't spoken. "The Allies are well aware of the superstitions of many of our leaders. And they risk very little by letting you spill the Naples operation, since only a fool would believe you. So you get to establish your credentials without paying any military cost. Sell your wild story. Ingratiate yourself. Burrow your way into our High Command. The perfect double agent."

Boyd looked disgusted. "If you think this is the case, I can provide another demonstration. And another. Eventually, even you'll have to admit the truth."

"I don't have time to play games," said Zimmerman. "So I've seen to it that you're now the Reichsfuhrer's problem. Because you made a mistake, Herr Boyd. You were far too bold last night. No Canadian civilian throws himself at me when he's chained, outmanned, and outgunned. Not even battle-tested soldiers would have this kind of arrogance."

He paused to let this sink in. "So I set up a little experiment of my own just now. Had my three best hand-to-hand fighters attack you, with orders not to kill, but at least put you down. I predicted you'd prevail, even cuffed. But I didn't predict just how effortlessly you would do it.

"I've never seen any man move with such speed, grace, and decisiveness. I'm pretty sure you could have bested ten of my soldiers. Which makes sense. My guess is that you're really an American officer, spy, and commando. For an operation designed to place you into the heart of the Fuhrer's inner circle, I would expect the Americans to send their very best man."

Boyd frowned deeply, furious with himself. Maybe it was the aftereffects of time travel, but he had been uncharacteristically sloppy. First, he had exactly mirrored the mistake Kelly had made on Sun Island, when she had let their Chinese captors know how much Boyd meant to her.

But she had made this mistake as an inexperienced civilian. His lapse was unforgivable.

And now this. He should have realized he was being tested. He would have if he had been up against a colonel from his own time. But he had let down his guard here. Just because a man lived in primitive times and was part of a barbaric movement didn't make him stupid.

"I see why you're so misguided," said Boyd calmly, trying to salvage the situation. "First, I have to admit to being a hothead. Even so, I normally would have been cowering in fear last night. But the power I absorbed in that room was exhilarating. I was a little bit drunk with it. I felt invincible."

He paused. "Second, I'm a true seer. When your soldiers attacked me, I knew what moves they were going to make before they did. Do you really think the most gifted clairvoyant on Earth could be beaten by a few men? Foresight is the ultimate advantage in hand-to-hand combat."

"You didn't foresee my boot," said Zimmerman.

"Of course I did," said Boyd. "But I was chained to the floor. How was I going to dodge it?"

The colonel paused for almost a minute in thought. Boyd knew he hadn't been expected to put on a defense, especially one that made sense.

"This may be true," said Zimmerman finally. "You may be exactly what you say. But it's now out of my hands. I've transmitted details on everything that happened here to Reichsfuhrer Himmler. I told him of my concerns, and he is eager to sort things out. I'm either sending him a brilliant clairvoyant," he added, "or a master spy. Either way, he's sure to find you useful.

"As it happens," continued the colonel, "a long-range transport plane was scheduled to arrive here tonight to drop off supplies. But rather than head back empty, as had been the plan, it will now carry three passengers. You and Major Hahn will be flying to Berlin in the cargo compartment, and your wife in the cockpit. If you try to resist us at any time, your wife will pay the price. If you are a spy, she probably isn't your wife. But I know that whoever she is, she means a lot to you."

"Colonel?" said Hahn, his tone almost pleading. "Request permission to stay here."

"Sorry, Major, your request is denied. Until we're certain his story checks out, you continue to be under suspicion, and will continue to be a prisoner. If his story checks out, I will personally see to it that you get a well-deserved promotion."

Justin Boyd gritted his teeth, disgusted with how this was turning out. His backstory had backfired in a big way. Scientist and Nazi loyalist Alex Wentz was maybe days away from solving the cube. Otto Richter was under intense scrutiny. And he and Kelly were being banished to Germany, taking Otto's only ally along with them.

Still, he knew that there hadn't been another choice. Zimmerman had been intent on killing them while they were helpless, and this had been their only way out. Theirs and Kurt Hahn's both, since he had been sinking fast before Boyd had interjected. Still, they were now heading thousands of miles in the wrong direction, and would need to return in a hurry.

"What of the boy who was chained in the room with us?" asked Kelly. "Why is a sixteen-year-old even at this encampment? And why are you punishing him? He did nothing but get knocked unconscious."

"He is eighteen," said Zimmerman. "And he will be restored to his former duties. We'll just be keeping a more careful eye on him from here on out. And this is your fault for exposing the vulnerabilities in our security. Normally, I'd be worried that you know our location. But since neither of you will ever be out of sight of the SS unless you've proven yourselves beyond all doubt, I will continue to sleep soundly."

"You should, Herr Colonel," said Boyd. "Because soon I'll be guiding your Fuhrer and High Command, and this war will be over quite quickly."


"Fairy tales do not tell children that monsters exist.

Children already know that monsters exist.

Fairy tales tell children that monsters can be killed."

—G.K. Chesterton, (English writer and philosopher)


Major Justin Boyd awoke on a hard cot and took in his surroundings. He was shackled to a concrete floor once again, but this time inside a dim, dreary prison cell that looked ancient, exactly the way he imagined a medieval dungeon might appear, except it wasn't underground.

The cell was tiny, illuminated by a single low-watt bulb out of reach in the ceiling above, with bars extending deep into concrete walls, and a tiny, barred window to the outside that was too small to wriggle through, even if the bars were absent.

Even so, given his shackles, the Nazis had decided the prison cell alone wasn't enough to contain him. Zimmerman must have made sure that news of Boyd's extraordinary combat skills, and his likely identity as an enemy spy, had arrived long before he had.

Boyd had no memory of his recent trip, just of ten hours of solitude in Canada before the long-range transport plane had arrived. He had read for most of this time, having Sage display the parts of Otto's journal having to do with the Nazis on his lenses, along with as much information on the war and key players as he could possibly suck in.

After being chained inside the plane, an injection had been administered to knock him out, and he made the trip unconscious, the same way he had traveled to Sun Island. In all his years as an enhanced commando, he had never been drugged into unconsciousness a single time, and now it seemed as though it was becoming a daily occurrence. This time, however, he was grateful. He had no interest in staying awake for twenty-five to thirty hours of cramped, chained travel.

The major rose and walked to the tight bars in front of him, his chain providing plenty of slack, and was able to make out almost a dozen additional prison cells, all of them empty.

He looked through the tiny window to a dark, starless sky, although the grounds were surprisingly well lighted. He could make out two medieval guard towers and at least three nested layers of unclimbable walls, the last two of which were topped with electric wire and barbed wire, respectively. But just like the inside, the grounds appeared to be deserted.

"Can you identify this place?" he said subvocally to Sage.

"Yes. Based on your visual input, there is a greater than ninety percent likelihood that you are in Spandau Prison in western Berlin, which was built in 1876."

"Why does it seem deserted?"

"It was last fully occupied in 1933," reported the AI. "Adolf Hitler used the Reichstag fire that year as a pretext to round up journalists and other opponents and put them here in what he called protective custody. The Gestapo also used this prison to torture enemies. But in 1933, the first Nazi concentration camps were completed at Dachau and other locations, and all Spandau prisoners were transferred to these sites."

As Sage was finishing her reply, an SS captain marched into Boyd's view wearing a neatly pressed uniform. "Welcome to Berlin, Herr Boyd," the man said with a heavy accent. "My name is Eckhart Pelzer."

"How did you know I was awake?"

"I've been checking every fifteen minutes," replied Pelzer. "I'll have some food and water brought in right away."

Boyd considered him carefully. "I'm surprised you know English."

"One of the reasons I was assigned to this duty. I'm told you've attracted very rarefied attention, Herr Boyd, but that no one is sure what to make of you. You could be a hated enemy, or a highly valued guest. So I've been told to treat you as well as possible under the circumstances."

"Does that include reopening Spandau Prison just for me?"

Pelzer smiled. "Very temporarily, I assure you. And if you prove yourself, I'm told you'll be treated like a king. For the time being, I can make sure you get high-quality food, and have your shackles removed long enough for you to shower. When you're finished, I can give you fresh underclothes and have your outfit washed and pressed. Looks like you've, ah... lived in those clothes for quite a while."

An image of a woman sitting at a soapy washboard and bucket flashed into Boyd's mind. "When were electric washing machines invented?" he asked Sage subvocally.

"1908," replied the AI immediately.

I'll be damned, thought Boyd. "That would be appreciated, Captain," he said out loud.

"I've seen jeans and sweatshirts before," said Pelzer, "but never any like yours."

"Well, you know what they say," replied the American prisoner, barely managing to keep a straight face. "Canada is the undisputed fashion capital of the world."

Boyd's eyes narrowed, and his expression became gravely serious. "There was a woman who was flown to Berlin on the same plane I was," he added. "My, ah... wife. Where is she?"

"She's been taken to Rolling Hills Mansion, a more comfortable, secluded estate about thirty miles from Berlin. She'll be well treated while we... evaluate your situation. As long as you cooperate, of course."

"Of course," repeated Boyd.

"An SS general is on his way here and will arrive before dawn. I'm told that if you prove yourself to him, you'll be joining your wife within just a few days."

"I'll look forward to that," replied Boyd. "And what of Major Hahn? He was also on the plane with us."

"He's at Rolling Hills Mansion, as well. In a different wing than your wife. He's had a distinguished career, and is only under suspicion, so he's entitled to civilized treatment. Not that the mansion isn't extremely well guarded. You'd be there, too, except that Colonel Zimmerman thinks you could take out an entire platoon single-handedly, and he warned us to be very, very careful with you."

Boyd had known the Germans would still be wary of him, thinking he was much more likely a spy than a seer. The quicker he could reverse this perception and get them to lower their guard, even slightly, the sooner he could reunite with Kelly and escape back to Canada.

To do this, he had to find ways to accurately predict the future without harming the Allies or changing history, a difficult task. During his long wait for the transport plane, he had searched for just the right piece of intel to offer up on his arrival in Germany, based on a rough estimate of how long the travel would take.

He had hoped to find an Allied attack that had failed, so that tipping the Germans off wouldn't change things. Instead, he had stumbled upon something that would serve even better, occurring in the German occupied territory of Norway. As long as he wasn't speaking to a member of the German High Command. And assuming he arrived before it happened—which still remained to be seen.

"What time is it?" he asked the captain.

"Just before eleven p.m."

Perfect! thought Boyd. He had made it here with four hours to spare. "Then we're in luck," he said aloud. "There's still time."

"Time for what?"

"I realize I'm supposed to prove myself to the general who is on his way. But I've seen a future that I can't wait until dawn to report."

The captain considered. "Go on," he said.

"I'm going to need you to call your Fuhrer immediately. I have some critical intelligence for him that is very time sensitive."

Pelzer looked amused. "I'm afraid I can't do that," he said.

"Do you know who I am?" said Boyd, striving for the right degree of haughtiness. "What I can do?"

"Yes. I've been told you're either the world's most brilliant clairvoyant. Or the world's most brilliant spy."

"I'm a seer, not a spy. And you must also be aware that I'm on the radar of both Heinrich Himmler and Adolf Hitler, correct?"

"I've never heard that expression before, on the radar," said Pelzer. "But I think I understand your meaning. Yes, I'm aware that you've attracted their attention."

"A clear measure of the potential they see in me, Captain. And in just four hours the Allies will succeed in delivering a major blow to your war efforts." He raised his eyebrows. "Unless I alert your Fuhrer in time."

"Then you first need to tell me what's going on."

Boyd sighed. "If that's what it takes," he said, "I will. I had a very powerful and specific vision just before I awoke. I saw a team of maybe ten Allied commandos scaling a cliff and crossing a gorge. Their target is something called the Vemork power station in Norway. I don't have the exact location, but your Fuhrer will know where it is. Unless I alert him, the Allies will succeed in sabotaging a section of the station that's dedicated to processing water. As I said, in about four hours from now."

Pelzer eyed him in disbelief. "Is this a bad joke?" he said in disgust. "You want me to call the Fuhrer at this time of night? To tell him about the sabotage of a water processing plant—in Norway?"

Boyd fought back a smile. He had read that Hitler was well known for insisting he not be awakened under any circumstances, and by this time in the war, he frequently slept until noon, beset by failing health and addicted to a wide array of medications.

D-Day could well have been a disaster for the Allies, but when they crashed the shores of Normandy, the Nazis were terrified to wake Hitler, who insisted on making every key decision, so they were paralyzed for many critical hours.

If his generals wouldn't wake him for D-Day, this SS captain wouldn't begin to consider waking him for something whose significance he couldn't possibly comprehend. And Boyd wasn't about to help.

"I know it sounds odd," said Boyd. "But my powers as a seer are now infallible. And this is extremely important. A mystical power is telling me your High Command will want to know about this."

"Are you sure these commandos aren't just passing through the water processing section on their way to something more vital?"

"I'm sure," said Boyd. "And this is urgent. You have to trust me."

Boyd almost felt sorry for the SS captain. The top-secret plant in Norway, known only to a select few, was a vital part of Germany's effort to build an atomic bomb. The water to which Boyd was referring was called heavy water, and it was exceedingly difficult to make or isolate. Instead of the hydrogen atoms in this water having only a single proton, they each had a single neutron as well, doubling their atomic weight.

An atomic bomb required a chain reaction to split uncountable molecules of uranium and liberate energy. The Allied and Nazi scientists had chosen different strategies to achieve this result. The Allies focused their efforts on purifying uranium, which would make a chain reaction easier to achieve. Germany, on the other hand, used unenriched uranium, but bathed it in heavy water, which was also known to improve the efficiency of a chain reaction.

But according to Sage and history, a team of Allied commandos was even now on its way to sabotage the Nazi's heavy water production, dealing a major blow to their efforts.

"You're out of your mind," said Pelzer in contempt. "There is no chance I'm going to wake the Fuhrer to protect water. None!"

"Then wake someone else," insisted Boyd, counting on Pelzer not to do this, either. "Anyone else who can stop it. Go through your chain of command until it reaches the Fuhrer."

"You must have just had a strange dream, Herr Boyd, that you mistook for a vision. So I'm ending this discussion. I don't want to hear any more about it. Understood?"

Boyd opened his mouth, pretending he wanted to argue further, and then closed it again, as if reacting to the resolve on Pelzer's face. Finally, he blew out a long breath and nodded. "Understood," he said, trying to come across as both frustrated and distraught. "But don't say I didn't try."

"I won't," said the captain.

"So when will the general arrive?" asked Boyd, switching gears.

"In six hours."

"Then I'd like to take you up on your offer of a meal. And a shower and clean clothes also."

"Of course," said Pelzer graciously.

Boyd knew the captain now thought he was formidable and crazy both, the most dangerous of all combinations. "Can I assume you'll be having three men with machine guns guarding me from afar while I wash up?" he asked with a sigh.

Pelzer studied his prisoner for several long seconds. "At least three," he said with a humorless smile.


The Rolling Hills Mansion was private, secluded, and as magnificent as it was enormous. Boyd had seen major museums with less square footage. A connected complex of mansions rather than just one, made from stone, brick, and marble, it spread out over several acres of land, a series of single-story structures that had the height of two or even three stories, as soaring, vaulted ceilings were an architectural mainstay.

There were five main sections. The central mansion was even more ornate than the rest, with even higher ceilings, and six towering white pillars at its front entrance. Two peripheral wings extended out from the south side of the central mansion, and two more from the north, arranged in perfect symmetry, making the entire estate from above resemble a giant butterfly with an extra pair of wings tacked on. Including vast ballrooms, dining halls, libraries, kitchens, bedrooms, and others, the five connected single-story mansions contained well over a hundred separate rooms, not including closets and bathrooms.

The extensive grounds contained a series of gardens and fountains, with a wide, gray-colored brick road leading to an enormous stone roundabout driveway abutting the main residence. The roundabout, large enough to hold dozens of cars, encircled a section of land with a thirty-foot diameter, like a tire surrounding a rim. Within this spacious inner circle, a series of eight-foot-tall shrubs had been sculpted into the shape of an enormous swastika, which Boyd found as surreal as anything he had ever seen.

The American prisoner's hands were cuffed behind his back, and he was led through a series of rooms, each grander than the last, with ornate chandeliers and furniture, exquisite sculptures, and vivid oil paintings. He found himself wondering if the mansion had once belonged to prominent Jews who had been starved and then gassed to death while the Nazis stole their home, and then filled it with pilfered art. Or if the furnishings had been purchased with proceeds from a literal mountain of gold fillings pulled from the teeth of the millions they had gassed to death.

More than twenty guards patrolled both the inside and outside of the residence, about half with handguns or rifles and half with machine guns.

Boyd decided that as surreal as the giant swastika hedge had been, his trip through the mansion was even more so. It was the biggest residence he had ever been in, and it was crawling with men in crisp SS uniforms straight off a movie set, their swastika armbands so bright red they almost glowed.

For a place named Rolling Hills, the grounds and surroundings could not have been flatter, and Sage had no record of the mansion in her database.

Boyd was taken to the far south wing and ushered into a large inner courtyard by two uniformed SS officers, while three others of lower rank manned the only entrance back into the house. The courtyard was beautiful, with lush green ivy running up its walls, large pots filled with colorful flowers, and a large running fountain at its center.

"Sorry about the handcuffs, Herr Boyd," said one of the two SS officers in perfect English, almost solicitously. "But I have been told to extend every courtesy to you. We are preparing a bedroom for your use. In the meanwhile, I can offer the best food and wine, and will honor any further request, within reason. I'd like you to feel more an honored guest than a prisoner."

"An honored guest with his hands cuffed behind his back?"

The SS officer winced. "Again, my apologies," he said. "We're in the far south wing, as you know. My superiors believe that even if you turn out to be a dangerous spy, the fact that your wife is being held in the far north wing will keep you in check. The cuffs are just an added precaution that we hope won't be needed for long. In the meanwhile, is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes, I'd like to speak with Major Kurt Hahn."

"Certainly, Herr Boyd," said the man. He and his comrade proceeded to go back inside the residence, leaving Boyd alone once again, still under the watchful eyes of the three soldiers manning the entrance.

Less than five minutes later Hahn walked into the courtyard, unrestrained in any way. His face showed pleasure at seeing the American, and he moved as if to clap him on the shoulder, but he thought better of it since the guards were watching. Boyd couldn't blame him. He had a cover to protect, at least for the time being.

Boyd motioned the German major to sit with him on the low wall of the circular central fountain, so the sound of water would drown out their voices.

"It's good to see you, Herr Boyd," said Hahn by way of greeting. "But also surprising. I was told you wouldn't be joining us for several days—at minimum. That you had to first convince an SS general of your clairvoyance and loyalty to the Reich."

The American nodded. Ironically enough, the general in question had turned out to be Magnus Becker, the same man whom Otto had written of in his journal, who had initially taken the boy from his home. "I was very efficient," said Boyd, keeping his voice low.

The American told Hahn about the intel he had provided on the plant in Norway and its significance, and that the captain he had shared it with hadn't passed it on, as he had known would be the case. Naturally, it had proven to be accurate. The commando team had made it in, sabotaged the facility, and made it out again, exactly when and how Boyd had predicted.

Just after dawn, Boyd had told Becker of his earlier vision and attempts to sound the alarm, and the general had checked and confirmed that the sabotage had indeed taken place, and had learned from the German High Command why this site was so important. This success immediately burnished Boyd's credentials, and someone above Becker in rank had been impressed enough to clear the American to move into the mansion well ahead of schedule. Boyd had met with Becker between five and six that morning and had arrived at Rolling Hills before noon.

"Brilliantly done, Herr Boyd," said the SS major when the American had finished, keeping his voice low. "But how do you know what's going to happen with such precision? Yes, you're from 2027. But I can't believe that people from eighty-four years in the future know the day-to-day history of every attack in this war—to the hour."

"They don't," replied Boyd. "I just happen to have a nearly perfect memory," he explained. And that perfect memory is called Sage, he thought, as the hint of a smile crossed his face.

"The important thing," continued Boyd out loud, "is that I've joined you and Kelly. Which means we can get the hell out of here tonight and make our way back to Canada."

"We can't go now," said Hahn in dismay. "You do know where we are, right?"

Boyd blinked in confusion. "Apparently not."

"I'm a little surprised by that," said Hahn. "This is an estate that Hitler is having converted for use as his private home. But it will also serve as a retreat for gatherings of his inner circle, and as a command center. He's decided he needs something similar to the Berghof, but on the outskirts of Berlin. It should be finished in just a few weeks."

Boyd was familiar with the infamous Berghof, Hitler's beloved mountain palace on the Bavarian-Austrian border, from which he had governed Germany and planned the invasions of multiple countries. The Nazis had evicted farmers and homeowners from the area and constructed what amounted to a Nazi village, a fortress town on the side of a mountain, with barracks for Hitler's guards, houses for key Nazi officials, parade grounds, shooting ranges, and even a cinema. In many ways it was Hitler's White House, war room, and Camp David retreat all rolled into one.

But if the complex they were in was meant to be the Berghof's second coming closer to Berlin, it was odd that Sage had found no mention of it. The Fuhrer must have decided not to follow through with it after all.

"Why isn't it finished?" asked Boyd.

"I only know bits and pieces from what I overheard," said Hahn. "But I think they're still upgrading security, and putting the finishing touches on the war room."

"War room?"

"Yes, a meeting room, map room, and telephone room all rolled into one. Apparently, a first set of telephones has been installed and activated, but they are now installing a second set."

"Does the general public know about this new Berghof?"

"Not yet," replied Hahn. "They will when it's finished. But now you know why we can't leave."

"I'm afraid I still don't," admitted Boyd. "So Satan is taking over another home for his personal use. Good for him. Why does that matter to us?"

"Why does that matter to us?" repeated Hahn in disbelief. "It matters because all the men you see are here to guard and maintain this mansion. Hitler's mansion. So you're the only real... guest. Kelly and I are just along for the ride. Which means only one thing. Your accurate vision of the heavy-water sabotage, on top of your accurate vision of the attack on the submarine base, has attracted Hitler's full attention. He no longer intends to have Himmler size you up. He wants to do it himself. In person."

Boyd recoiled in horror. "That's crazy," he said. "Wild speculation."

"Not at all," insisted Hahn. "Do you think you'd be at Hitler's newest residence unless he planned to meet you? I'm not clairvoyant, but I know the Third Reich, and I guarantee that this is the case."

The SS major raised his eyebrows. "So don't think of this as a prison," he added. "Think of it as Adolf Hitler's waiting room."


Boyd issued a soft whistle, which was drowned out by the sound of water falling into the fountain behind him, and tried to get his mind around this new state of affairs. The thought of sharing the same room with the personification of evil, with a monster who had ordered the torture and murder of millions of innocent civilians without batting an eye, was appalling, grotesque.

After he and Kelly had crash landed in 1943, all he had wanted to do was help Otto Richter get the Enigma Cube to Spokane. But his ridiculous backstory had been more effective than he thought it would be. Too effective. Just the thought of seeing Adolph Hitler in the flesh made his skin crawl, but the idea of actually meeting him was psychotic.

Justin Boyd shot the German major a nauseated expression. "When do you think he'll arrive?"

"I have no idea. He doesn't share his schedule with me. Or anyone. He's erratic."

"Not to mention busy with genocide and world conquest," said Boyd in disgust.

"Yes. So he could be on his way here this second, or he might not come for a month. But given his superstitions, and what you might mean for the war effort, I'd guess within the next three or four days."

"I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint him, then," said Boyd. "Because we're leaving tonight."

"What are you talking about?" protested Hahn. "This is a dream opportunity. You wanted to help us keep the Atlantis Cube out of Hitler's hands. Well, now you can do a lot more than that. You can cut off those same hands. And his head along with it."

"As tempting as that is," said Boyd, "that's not why we're here. And I believe Hitler will change his mind about meeting me, anyway, when he's had some time to think it through."

"Why?"

"I've learned the hard way that just because someone is evil and barbaric doesn't necessarily make them stupid. Very soon it will occur to him that I just disclosed an attack that I had to know wouldn't be taken seriously. So now I've given the Nazis intel on two attacks I knew they wouldn't act on. Hitler will come to realize I managed to establish my credentials without hurting the Allies at all.

"Once this occurs to him," continued Boyd, "he won't meet with me until I can prove myself further. Until I give up decisive intelligence that leads to a great victory. And even then, he'll conclude he can't really trust me. Not a Canadian with zero ties to Germany, who is reportedly too good at combat for his own good. He'll decide I'm still a spy. That the Allies are willing to give up as many men as necessary to get me in tight with him."

Boyd frowned. "And he'd be right," he added. "I have no doubt the Allies would be willing to make almost any sacrifice to position an operative inside Hitler's inner circle. I'm telling you, Major, he won't be meeting with me. We have to escape now, before he comes to these conclusions and becomes certain I'm a spy."

Hahn grimaced, as if he had been stabbed in the neck. "But what if you're wrong?" he said, almost pleading. "We'll never get a chance like this again. Isn't the possible reward worth the risk?"

"What if I'm right?" said Boyd. "Or what if he does meet with me, but we fail to take him out? Then we're of no use to Otto, and we risk that the fellow scientist on the team—Alex Wentz, I think it was—will unlock the cube using Otto's invention. And that will make Hitler truly unstoppable."

Hahn turned away in disgust, and Boyd gave him time to think it through. Finally, after more than a minute, the SS major reluctantly agreed to attempt escape on Boyd's timetable.

"I'm sorry," said the American. "I really am. I can only imagine how desperately you want to kill this monster. Because I know how much I do. In fact, over the next eight decades, the question of killing Hitler will become a favorite in ethics classes. Many millions will ponder if a time machine took them to when Hitler was an infant, would they kill him? Would they put a bullet into the brain of a helpless two-year-old, who had yet to commit a single crime, knowing his destiny?"

Boyd paused. "The vast majority would kill him, by the way. Even as a baby. Never have so many dreamt so passionately of ending a man's life. Fantasized about it, even after he was long dead." He shook his head. "But we can't make the attempt. Not now. We have to be smart about this."

Hahn nodded woodenly, staring at the ground.

"Look, let's move on to other topics," said Boyd gently. "When did it get pitch-dark last night?"

The SS major mourned his fantasy of killing Hitler for just a few more seconds and then turned back to Boyd. "Around eight," he replied.

"Okay, we'll begin our escape at ten sharp."

"Do you have a plan?"

"That depends on your situation here. I'm cuffed, and multiple eyes are always on me. Can I assume you're able to roam freely around the mansion and grounds?"

"Not freely, but close enough. These men know that I'm accused of nothing more than having an unauthorized conversation with a prisoner. So I'll have one or two... escorts, but they'll let me get exercise and wander around."

"Perfect," said Boyd. "Then yes, I do have a plan. I need you to provide reconnaissance on the layout of this mansion, numbers and positioning of the guards, how they're armed, and so on. Right away. Along with the precise location of the war room you spoke of."

"That's a lot of wandering," said Hahn.

"I'm afraid that's only the beginning. This home is electric powered, right?"

"Yes," replied the German. "Most homes have been since the mid-thirties. And the wealthier homes for sure."

"And it gets its power from outside? From a power plant of some kind?"

"Yes," said Hahn. "I'm sure we aren't as advanced as you, but we aren't primitives."

"Right," said Boyd. "Of course. And since you aren't, your top priority will be to find the circuit breakers to the house."

"I don't know what those are."

"They're in a steel box where electricity comes into the residence from transmission lines."

"You mean the fuse box?"

"Right. Circuit breakers must not be around yet. I need you to position yourself near these fuses just before our scheduled escape. Then, at ten o'clock exactly, destroy them. Completely. Smash them up, rip out wires, whatever, but I need the electricity to never come back on."

Hahn nodded.

"Tell me more about this war room," said Boyd. "Especially about the telephones."

"I haven't seen it, but I know the type. It'll be a large room with maps covering walls and tables. There will likely be a huge conference table in the center. Perhaps ten phones will be spaced around the room's perimeter. Each phone will be connected directly to Hitler's private underground switchboard in Berlin. This is manned day and night by multiple women who connect the calls, and loyal SS soldiers making sure they don't listen in. Whenever Hitler's here, that room basically becomes the command center for the entire German army."

"You mentioned there was a second set of phones being installed," said the American. "Why would this be necessary?"

"I don't know. I'd guess as backup. But if the first set are taken out or not working, I'm not sure why the extras would be any different."

"Will the phones work if the electricity is out?"

"Yes, they don't need much power, which they get through the copper wires that connect them to the switchboard." Hahn paused. "Why?" he asked. "Do your phones require more power than the wires can deliver?"

"Less," said Boyd. "It's just that most of our phones aren't connected to wires anymore. But this is good news. So the second you kill the electricity, I need you to get to the war room as fast as possible and lock it down. Kelly and I will be joining you there as soon as we can. We'll want to use a telephone, and we need to prevent the SS from using one to call in reinforcements."

"They won't," said Hahn. "First, they won't dare enter Hitler's war room unless he invites them there, and he isn't on site. Second, there are more than twenty-five men here, well-armed and highly trained. Their pride won't let them believe they could possibly need reinforcements to face a single enemy combatant. Or two enemy combatants if they realize I've turned. In fact, even I can't believe they'll need reinforcements. You really think we can win this thing?"

"I thought you were the one arguing that we shouldn't just escape, we should stop to assassinate Hitler on the way out."

"Well, when you put it that way, my thinking may have been blinded by hatred."

"I can't blame you," said Boyd. "But to answer your question, I have some tricks up my sleeve that will even the playing field. We'll have at least a fifty-fifty chance."

"Good enough for me," said Hahn. "Two unarmed men, one with his hands cuffed behind his back, against dozens of soldiers—many with machine guns. I'll gladly take fifty-fifty."

"The odds are a lot worse if you aren't able to kill the electricity."

"Why is this so vital?"

"Let's just say that I'm extremely skilled at fighting in the dark."

Hahn stared deeply into the American's eyes, taking his measure. "Okay, then," he said finally. "If you say you can fight in the dark, I'm willing to believe you. So don't worry, the lights will be out at ten sharp, even if I have to do it from the afterlife."

"I appreciate your heart, Major, but do it from this plane of existence. We need you to stay alive."

Hahn smiled. "If you insist," he said wryly, "I guess I'll have to give that a try."


The American prisoner watched as Kurt Hahn began his leisurely stroll through the mansion to collect intel, with two armed escorts in tow.

Once his German ally had vanished from sight, Boyd had one of the guards bring him a drink, which the man did with more enthusiasm than a professional butler. Never had an SS prisoner had more accommodating guards. But then again, never had an SS prisoner been slated to meet with the Fuhrer himself, with a real chance of becoming his right-hand man in the very near future.

Boyd's minders would be shot if they let him escape. But if he turned out to be Hitler's golden boy, they could also find themselves at the wrong end of an execution if they treated him with anything less than perfect respect.

Boyd sipped at his drink, took a deep breath, and asked Sage to convert his subvocalized words into his voice and transmit them to Kelly Connolly, who was now well within range.

"Kelly, it's me," he began, turning his back to the guards and gazing at the fountain. "Don't react. Reply when you get somewhere where they can't see your mouth. Remember, the comm will amplify the faintest whisper."

He waited for the longest fifteen seconds of his life.

"Justin, what a relief," she answered finally. "Are you okay?"

Boyd exhaled, unaware that he had been holding his breath. She had taken the words right out of his mouth. But relief wasn't a strong enough word to convey his emotions at hearing her voice, at receiving confirmation that she was alive and well.

"I'm fine," he replied quickly. "What about you? How are they treating you?"

"I have guards watching me, but other than that I've been treated like royalty. They offered me clothing, but I prefer the garb our Chinese friends provided. So they actually washed it and gave me clean clothes to wear while I waited. They even let me change in private. They've been feeding me anything I want, and jumping to attention when I bat an eyelash."

"Wow, I almost feel bad for you that we're going to have to blow this joint."

"Blow this joint?" said Kelly. "Really? You do realize that's an expression from the 1990s, right?"

"I do," said Boyd in amusement. "But I'm sure you realize that the nineties are still five decades away. So I'm way ahead of my time."

Kelly laughed. "So tell me what happened after you boarded the transport plane," she asked.

Boyd brought her up to speed as efficiently as he could, ending with a description of how he had been vetted by Magnus Becker, the same SS general who had been referenced in her grandfather's journal.

"So where are you now?" she asked when he had finished.

"In the far south wing. As far away from you as they could manage. Like you, they're treating me like a VIP in some ways. Even gave me my own bedroom."

"That's great. They're trusting you a lot more than I thought they would."

"Well, they do have me cuffed," he noted, "and they stripped the room of anything but pillows. They even removed the cover of the water tank on the toilet, and what's really unfortunate for me, the toilet seat."

"Yuck," said Kelly. "So, what, you have to sit on the rim?"

"Okay, I really didn't need to put that thought picture in your head. Too much information."

Kelly laughed. "Seriously, though, why would they do that?"

"They uncuff me when I use the facilities. The tank lid is made of heavy porcelain and comes right off. So I could use it as a weapon. I'm strong enough to rip off the toilet seat and do the same."

"Yet another conversation I'd have bet my life I'd never have," said Kelly. "And I can't believe we're actually staying at one of Hitler's residences. Talk about insane."

"Insane is par for the course lately," he noted. "Apparently, the impossible becomes routine when you're involved. You know what they say, it's a jolly holiday with Kelly."

"More a nightmarish holiday than a jolly one," she replied in amusement. "But I can't believe you managed to land a joke referencing Mary Poppins while you're a prisoner inside the home of Adolf Hitler. That's not something just any man could pull off."

"I guess I'm special that way," said Boyd with a grin. "But we should get back to business. I need you to test your leash. See how far they'll let you wander around. Wherever you manage to go, whisper what you're seeing. Guards, layout, and so on. I'll have Sage convert it into a 3D map. There's no urgency, as jailbreak is more than ten hours away, so you can be very casual about your requests for exercise."

"Roger that," she replied, and Boyd smiled at her use of the military vernacular. "So tell me your plan."

"I will," he said. "But first, I need to tell you the bad news." He blew out a long breath. "I know you know this, Kelly, but I have to say it anyway. There's not a clean way out of here. We're looking at another bloodbath. I wish I could sugarcoat it, but I can't. I keep on putting you in these situations, and I couldn't be more sorry about it."

She sighed. "You haven't been putting me in these situations, Justin. You've been trying to get me out of them. But I know how sorry you are about the need to take lives. And I appreciate how sensitive you've been about what this might be doing to my psyche."

Boyd frowned. He only wished there was something more he could do to make this easier for her. But there was not. He thought for a moment of telling her that seventy-five million people had died in this war, hoping to put the coming carnage into perspective.

But he already knew her well enough to know that this statistic wouldn't help in the slightest.


It was just after eight at night, and the sun had finally vanished below the horizon. Three Mercedes sedans paraded onto the brick drive of the Rolling Hills Mansion and made their way to the roundabout that abutted the central section of the residence. All three sedans were black—making them nearly invisible on this dark, cloudy night—with the one in the middle being the grandest.

When the vehicles stopped on the roundabout in front of the imposing swastika hedge and parked, eight machine-gun-wielding SS soldiers poured out of the two smaller sedans as if they were glorified clown cars. Two of them rushed to open the passenger's door of the car in the middle, standing on either side of it and delivering vigorous Heil Hitler salutes to Hitler himself, who absently acknowledged them, not by thrusting his arm out with a straight elbow, but by raising his forearm and pointing his hand backwards for just a moment, dismissively.

The eight SS guards surrounded their Fuhrer with ecstatic expressions, as if they had been tasked with protecting a god, while Hitler himself looked bored. He wore his standard garb, a relatively unadorned brown-orange uniform and matching tie. His demeanor was stern, his eyes dead and devoid of all empathy, and his face was unattractive, although nothing compared to the ugliness within.

Hitler surveyed the premises and then marched inside. He soon made his way to the nearly completed war room, where he contemplated several options he had been given earlier for tactical redeployment of troops.

Two of his private guards accompanied him inside the room, while six others waited outside.

Hitler turned to a large map of the world that covered an entire wall, and which showed the various fronts in the war and current German positions. He knew he needed to take bold action once again. As bold and decisive as the initial blitzkrieg had been.

But what should that be? No easy answers presented themselves.

Still, he allowed himself a rare smile. Because what he desperately needed was the help of a clairvoyant.

And as good fortune would have it, there happened to be one in this very complex.


Justin Boyd had found the long wait to launch their attack agonizing. He had passed much of the time reviewing the plan in his mind, thinking about various ways things could go awry, and reading information projected onto his lenses, continuing his quest to bring himself up to speed on all things World War II.

He now sat on the edge of the bed inside the room he had been issued with his hands still cuffed behind his back. He had always preferred the future to the past, science fiction over history, but it was hard not to find much of the information fascinating.

He was reading an article on why Hitler had demanded he be addressed only as the Fuhrer, and about one of his favorite propaganda slogans, "Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Fuhrer—one People, one Empire, one Leader," which had been endlessly repeated on posters, magazines, and radio broadcasts.

Boyd finished the short article and glanced up at a digital clock he had asked Sage to display at the edge of his field of vision. He groaned. It was still only a quarter past eight. Time seemed to be standing still.

Three sharp raps sounded at the closed door, which was thrown open before Boyd could respond. An SS Colonel named Ernst Dietrich rushed across the threshold along with three comrades, and each held a gun in their hand.

"The Fuhrer is on the premises," announced Dietrich excitedly in heavily accented English. "He wants to meet with you. I was ordered to bring you to his war room at nine—which is forty-five minutes from now."

Boyd's face froze as he fought not to show the fury he was feeling. So much for his theory that Hitler would decide not to meet with him. Maybe the man was as stupid as he was malevolent. Or maybe his superstition overwhelmed his reason.

Regardless, they had been so close, less than two hours away from triggering their attack. And now this, the mother of all wrenches thrown into the works.

"What a great honor," said the American finally, struggling to choke out the most disgusting words he had ever uttered.

He tilted his head, as though in thought. "Since we still have some time before the meeting, can you have one of your men get Major Hahn for me?"

"The Fuhrer wants to meet with you alone," replied the SS colonel.

"I realize that," said Boyd. "But I'd still like to speak with Major Hahn for a few minutes. I'm a little nervous about meeting your Fuhrer, and I know the major can help calm me down."

The colonel nodded. "I understand completely, Herr Boyd. Being in the presence of such a great man can unsettle anyone."

He issued orders in German, and one of the three men he had brought into the room rushed off to get Hahn.

"Thank you, Colonel," said the American.

Dietrich nodded. "Of course. But I must apologize in advance, Herr Boyd. Before you enter the war room, I'll need to cuff your ankles also. And chain you to the desk when you sit before the Fuhrer. But this way, you can have a private conversation without any guards present."

"No need to apologize," said Boyd amiably. "But since we have time," he added, gesturing toward a door at the back of the room. "I'd like to use the, ah... water closet. Can you remove my cuffs one more time?"

Boyd turned so his back was facing the SS colonel, not waiting for an answer. Dietrich produced a key and unlocked the cuffs while the two remaining guards trained their handguns at their VIP prisoner's head.

Boyd made a show of stretching the kinks from his arms and entered the bathroom without another word.

"Kelly, we've got a problem," he said, counting on Sage to transmit his subvocalizations once again. "Adolf Hitler is here. He's actually here. Now! And he wants to meet me at nine. So we need to move up our escape plans."

"To when?" asked Kelly, to her credit not wasting time being surprised.

"One minute from now," he replied. "Where are you now?"

"In my room. The door is closed, and two guards are posted outside."

Boyd frowned, all out of good ideas. "I'd advise lying low in the bathroom. With luck, they'll rush off when all hell starts to break loose. But if they spare a second to check on you and see the bathroom door closed, maybe they won't bust in. And if the action comes your way, lie down in the tub so you'll be protected from stray bullets. We'll coordinate more later, but I have to go."

"Good luck, Justin," she said anxiously, her whispered voice heavy with emotion.

"You too," he said, trying not to get choked up, himself.

Boyd flushed the toilet for his guards to hear and braced himself for what was to come. Once it began, it wouldn't end until he was dead, or every hostile on site was. Kelly had quoted from a stanza of Horatius at the Bridge just before they had surrendered to Shen in Pennsylvania, and this stanza was equally appropriate now.

How can a man die better, he recited to himself, than facing fearful odds. For the ashes of his fathers, and the temples of his gods.

Boyd decided he definitely had the fearful odds part of the stanza covered. He just needed to avoid the dying part. He needed to adhere to the wisdom of the great general George Patton, who had said, "You don't win a war by dying for your country. You win a war by making the other dumb bastard die for his."

Boyd opened the door with studied calm and exited the bathroom. "Thank you, Colonel," he said with a pleasant tone. "I feel much better," he added, turning and putting his hands behind his back once again. "I only wish I was dressed better for the meeting."

"I wouldn't worry too much," said the colonel. "The Fuhrer won't be judging you on your clothing."

He reached out to cuff the prisoner, but one moment he was moving the cuffs toward Boyd's hands, and the next Boyd had changed places with him, in a blur of motion, so that he was now behind the SS colonel. Before Dietrich had even registered what had happened, the prisoner grabbed his head and yanked hard, snapping the German's neck with a sharp crack like it was rotted wood.

Boyd propped up the limp body in front of him with his left arm while pulling the man's gun from its holster with his right. Both guards began firing at the American as he ducked down behind his human shield, and succeeded only in pumping bullet after bullet into their dead commander, whose body jerked about in a grisly dance from the dense barrage.

Boyd got off three shots in just over a second, and two hit their targets, blowing gaping holes through the foreheads of the SS guards, who crashed to the floor like felled trees. The American released his bloody, bullet-ridden human shield, allowing the colonel's body to quickly join his mutilated comrades on the floor, and then raced behind the open door.

Using his comm-amplified hearing, the major detected three soldiers rushing toward the room, sure to be followed by others, as the gunfire had been heard by everyone in the far south wing, perhaps in the entire residence.

The first SS guard arrived at the open door and dived across the threshold, rolling on the floor and coming up with a machine gun pointed forward, searching for a target, but Boyd's reflexes were at least twice as fast as the intruder, and he got off a clean shot, putting him down.

A second guard charged through with only a handgun, the same guard who had gone to fetch Hahn, and Boyd made quick work of him. But while this was happening, a third burst through, with his finger an instant away from depressing the trigger of a machine gun, which would spray the American with a curtain of death.

Boyd rolled to his right, but just as he was about to come up firing, the man's head exploded like a brain-and-blood-filled water balloon. The guard toppled to the ground, revealing Kurt Hahn standing behind him with a borrowed gun, one still pointed where the man's head used to be. Hahn was being brought to see the American, but the guards escorting him there had made the fatal mistake of neglecting him while they went after Boyd.

The American grabbed a machine gun from the floor and jumped to his feet, rushing over to the open door and surveying the wide-open great room beyond, using amplified hearing and vision, both.

"The coast is clear for the moment," he announced, handing Hahn the machine gun and picking up another off the floor. "There's obviously been a change of plans," he continued rapidly. "Hitler is here, and Sage says he'll have eight personal bodyguards with him. So our odds are worse than ever. They'll be storming this wing soon, and the lights are still on. I need you to get them off at all costs."

"How? There are only two ways out of this wing, one to the south, and one to the north. By now they'll be congregated at both exits, coordinating a joint attack. I'll never get through."

Boyd's mind raced, and the solution came to him almost immediately. "You're officially a prisoner here, yes, but you're only under suspicion. You may not be in uniform, but you're still an SS major. So leave the machine gun here. Pretend to be a victim. Pretend to be on their side. Make up a story they'll believe. And find a way to get to the fuse box."

Hahn exhaled loudly and nodded. "Good plan," he said. "I'll make it work."

"Good. Hitler's in the war room, so we can't meet there afterward as planned. Instead, once you've killed the power, meet me at the east wall of the main residence."

"I'll be there," said Hahn, surveying the mansion beyond the room. The coast continued to be clear, no doubt as the forces on either side of them gathered, only to soon draw inward like a python constricting its prey.

Hahn bent down and soaked the side of his shirt with a healthy sampling of the blood that had pooled in various locations throughout the room, while Boyd looked on approvingly.

"Who's Sage?" asked the German as he moved to the door, placing the machine gun on the ground. "You said she told you that Hitler would have eight personal bodyguards."

"If we live, I'll tell you all about her," said Boyd. "But for now, get that power off."

Boyd handed the SS major a handgun, which he shoved into his pants, concealing it from view. "Thanks," said Hahn. "You'll be in the dark before you know it," he added confidently.

Boyd knew this was nothing but false bravado, a kind gesture made to reassure a besieged ally. "I have no doubt," he said, feigning confidence of his own.


Kelly Connolly paced back and forth in the room she had been issued and tried to get her heart to stop racing. Boyd hadn't yet left the bathroom, and had ordered Sage to transmit what was happening on his end, so at least she'd be able to keep some tabs on what was going on.

Still, she was starting to panic, and desperately wished she could be by his side. He was a beast, a whirlwind, and no doubt smarter and quicker on his feet than any SS soldier here, but he was still only a human being. All it would take was a single stray shot to end his life.

She couldn't shake the seeping, hollow terror that invaded her soul at the thought of losing him now, after all they had been through together.

Suddenly, a barrage of gunshots nearly shattered her eardrums, her comm ensuring she heard them as loudly as if she were in the center of the maelstrom. These same sounds could be heard coming from outside of her head, as well, but off in the distance, muted, as they had to travel through numerous rooms and walls to reach her.

Her eyes glistened with moisture as the firefight continued, desperate to hear Boyd's voice, to learn he was still alive, but knowing better than to try to communicate and cause a distraction.

Finally, the gunfire ceased, and the only sound she heard was her own heart threatening to pump right out of her chest.

A burst of elation surged through her as Boyd's voice came over the comm.

"There's obviously been a change of plans," he was saying, although clearly not to her. "Hitler is here, and Sage says he'll have eight personal bodyguards with him. So our odds are worse than ever. They'll be storming this wing soon, and the lights are still on. I need you to get them off at all costs."

Kelly realized that he was talking to Kurt Hahn, which meant they had both made it through unscathed. She had known this first action would be the most perilous. Boyd had been cuffed and weaponless. As vulnerable as he would ever be. But he had obviously turned this around. He wasn't out of the woods, but surviving the first few minutes was a huge step in the right direction.

She listened carefully for any movement of the guards outside and heard at least one of them rush off to join the fray, but she had a sick feeling that the other remained. She wouldn't be surprised if he soon decided to haul her out of the room, to bring Boyd's supposed wife and only weakness into play.

She considered pretending to be using the bathroom, or hiding in the tub, as Boyd had recommended, but decided these tactics would be useless. She had fancied herself a pacifist, but that ship had recently sailed in a big way. To pretend otherwise would be akin to a woman insisting she was a virgin after sleeping with a dozen men.

She had to do whatever it took to get out of this, no matter what. Not only was her life on the line, but the life of a man she was drawn to like no other, and the fate of the entire timeline if they couldn't get back to Canada and the cube.

So she wouldn't lie low in a bathtub.

But perhaps a trip to the bathroom would prove useful, anyway.


Adolf Hitler studied a map of Europe that covered an entire wall of the war room. Normally, a room such as this would be filled with generals and advisors, but he wanted to consider the merits of various options in solitude, for once.

He scowled as a timid knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. All eight of his personal bodyguards were now outside of the room, and he had left strict instructions not to be disturbed.

"What is it!" he screeched.

"There has been gunfire on the premises," shouted the chief of his personal security contingent at the top of his lungs, knowing the room was well-insulated from noise.

"Enter!" shouted Hitler.

His security chief quickly entered and closed the door behind him, his expression suggesting he would rather be anywhere else, even though he tried to hide it. "Apologies, mein Fuhrer, but there has been considerable gunfire coming from the far south wing. Mansion security believes the Canadian prisoner is responsible. We'll have his wife brought here as an insurance policy. But given that there are twenty-eight men on security duty here tonight, you are in no danger, sir. We'll let them handle it and will remain with you."

Hitler screamed curses like a man whose hair was on fire. He had been counting on this clairvoyant to give him much-needed insight, and now it seemed that the man calling himself Justin Boyd was a spy after all.

Well, this Boyd would pay for his treachery—in ways the world had never seen. The Reich had perfected tortures that the ancient Chinese would envy, and Hitler vowed to himself that this spy would suffer worse than any man had ever suffered. First, he would make him watch as a dozen men gang-raped his wife and then tortured her to death.

And then the fun would really begin.

He would demand that Josef Mengele and others of his ilk get more creative than they had ever been, devising tortures that would make having one's skin removed with a razor blade seem like a gentle caress.

"I want Boyd brought to me alive!" he thundered at his security chief. "Understood!"

"Jawohl, mein Fuhrer!" responded the chief of security. He swallowed hard. "But what if he's already dead?"

"He had better not be!" screamed Adolf Hitler in a blind rage, his soulless eyes bulging out even more than usual. "Or members of mansion security will live to regret it."


Kurt Hahn made his way through the far south wing of the Rolling Hills Mansion and was struck by just how well lighted it was, despite the fall of darkness outside. Seemingly every lamp and chandelier were blazing, as if the mansion were showing off.

He neared the towering door leading to the outer grounds and began walking like a zombie dragging its undead carcass across the floor.

"Help!" he yelled as loudly as he could in German. "It's Hahn. I've been shot."

Hahn was dressed in civilian clothing, but everyone at Rolling Hills knew all about the SS major who had arrived in Berlin with the mysterious Canadian spy/seer, and why he was temporarily under guard.

"Help!" Hahn shouted a second time as he continued making his way to the door, cutting a pathetic, wounded figure inside the well-lighted building.

The mammoth door swung open and two men rushed over to him, one on either side, and waited for him to put an arm around their shoulders before they moved off, hoisting him across the floor and back outside. Deep darkness had fallen, but the grounds were sporadically illuminated by artificial lighting, ensuring ten to fifteen feet of eye-straining visibility.

Too many soldiers were congregated at the door for Hahn to count at one glance as he was helped over to yet another SS colonel.

The colonel fished a field dressing from a bag, a large pad of absorbent cloth with strips of fabric to tie it in place. The two men still propping him up, a lieutenant and a captain, helped him to secure it firmly over the faux wound on the side of his stomach.

"Report," said the SS officer in charge when this was finished.

Hahn made a show of wincing in pain. "It's... Boyd," he began. "Thought he wanted to... serve Reich. But went berserk. Killed at least two men," he added, minimizing the number so Boyd wouldn't sound as formidable as he was. "Tried to... stop him. But had no... weapon."

"Is he still alive?"

Hahn nodded weakly. "Yes."

"Outstanding," said the colonel, as relieved as if he were a man whose doctor had just told him his tumor was benign.

"Outstanding?" repeated Hahn in confusion.

"The Fuhrer is on site," explained the colonel, "and has been apprised of the situation. He wants Boyd alive. Badly. So yes, your report that he's alive is very good news. I plan to make sure that your bravery and intel on this matter is rewarded. I've seen your record, Major, and it's impressive. I believe that Colonel Zimmerman overreacted."

"Thank you... sir," said Hahn weakly. "But are you sure... Fuhrer is... safe?"

"Positive," said the colonel. "He's angry, because this Canadian deceived us, but he couldn't be safer."

Hahn pretended to be relieved. "Great news, sir."

"We need to get you patched up properly, Major. There's an infirmary in the central mansion." He gestured to the two soldiers still on either side of Hahn. "These men will take you there."

"Thank you, Colonel. But I can... make it... on my own."

"Nonsense. I won't hear of it." The colonel glanced at his watch. "We're entering this wing in a little over a minute. There's another group that will be entering from the south at the same time. We have twelve men and they have eleven. Even given the need to take Boyd alive, this is far more than necessary, so I can spare two men."

"Thank you, sir," said Hahn.

Having escorts foisted upon him was a bad break, but the fact that all nineteen soldiers would be well inside the building when the lights went out would be ideal for Justin Boyd, assuming he was half the night-fighter he claimed to be.

The colonel made sure the captain had a flashlight, as they would be taking an outside route to the central mansion, and then the colonel and nine other Nazi soldiers opened the door and fanned out inside the far south wing.

The men on either side of Hahn continued to serve as human crutches, supporting him and moving away from the door and around an edge of the building, the darkness intensifying with every step.

After they had traveled fifteen yards, without warning, the major jerked forward wildly, pretending to convulse, and slipped his arms from around the two men helping him. He slumped to the ground and fell forward, face down on the lawn, clutching at his makeshift bandage and moaning in agony.

The captain and lieutenant worked together to gently roll Hahn onto his back, but as the roll was completed, he somehow held a gun in his hand, and suddenly seemed anything but injured.

Hahn's gun spit out four rounds, and his two helpers fell to the ground beside him, dead. Wasting no time, the SS major jumped to his feet, shoved the captain's gun into his pants so he would have a spare, and retrieved the fallen flashlight.

This done, Hahn began to sprint across the darkened grounds, making his way to the fuse box on the west wall of the central mansion as quickly as he could.


"Frau Boyd," said a Nazi soldier, knocking gently at the door. "Frau Boyd, I need to come in."

Kelly Connolly was already in position behind the closed door. One of the guards had stayed back, as she had suspected, and was now either checking on her, or ready to drag her away to use against her "husband."

She held her breath as the handle turned and the door slowly began to swing inward. She quietly backed up farther behind the door and tried to ratchet up her courage and resolve, even though her heart was now beating more wildly than ever, and her temples were throbbing.

She had turned the lights off in the room, leaving the bathroom light on and the door closed, hoping that the attention of an entering guard would be drawn there.

Sure enough, the guard crept inside, gun extended, and began to make his way to the bathroom.

Kelly turned soundlessly as the guard passed and failed to look behind the door. She held a heavy, ceramic toilet tank lid, her focus on nothing but the back of the man's skull. Still not daring to breathe, she swung the rectangular bludgeon with both arms, like a two-handed tennis backhand, and connected with a sickening crack.

The guard was propelled forward from the strength of her adrenaline-powered blow and collapsed in a heap, unmoving. Kelly fought back tears of relief and horror, refusing to check to see if he was still breathing, afraid of what she might learn.

"Justin," she whispered hurriedly, knowing he was in a period of calm before the storm, and would soon be facing SS soldiers coming at him from all sides. "I knocked out my only guard with the toilet-tank lid. I guess you didn't overshare earlier after all. What now?"

"Well done!" said Boyd. "Get the hell out of there. Find another room as far away as possible and hide. Tell me where you are, and I'll come get you as soon as I can."

Kelly was about to reply when two additional soldiers charged into the room, machine guns drawn, and threw on the lights, turning hope to despair in an instant.

"Hande hoch!" shouted one of the two newcomers.

"Shit!" barked Boyd, having heard this order also. "It means hands up. I can't believe the bastards sent backup."

Kelly raised her arms above her head as the second soldier knelt down and checked the pulse of the guard she had hit. He turned to his partner and shook his head, indicating the guard was dead.

Both of the newcomers had different markings on their uniforms than any she had seen, which she guessed meant they were with Hitler's private guard.

The guard rose from the floor and faced Kelly, a menacing look on his face. "Komm mit uns!" he hissed. "Schnell!"

"English?" she asked.

Both men shook their heads. "Nein."

"Why do your two uniforms have different markings than the rest?" she asked for Boyd's benefit.

"Got it," he said. "There are two of them, and they're with Hitler's personal guard. Way to think on your feet."

"I learned from the best," she replied out loud, as the two Germans eyed her quizzically.

They stood behind her and gestured to the open door, making it clear that they would shove her forward violently with the butts of their guns if she didn't start moving on her own.

"Hang in there, Kelly," said Boyd. "If Hahn is able to kill the power, it will happen soon. So be ready to move. Study your surroundings carefully and try to work out a path you can navigate blind. Remember, they need you alive to use against me, so they won't shoot wildly in the dark."

"Roger that," said Kelly out loud, while the two Germans glanced at each other, wondering why this crazy woman continued to talk to herself.


Justin Boyd had wrestled with a decision for some time, only reaching one when his amplified hearing indicated that walls of SS soldiers were closing in.

He finally decided to put his faith in Kurt Hahn. To give him five more minutes to kill the lights.

If Boyd had decided the other way, concluded that Hahn had no chance, he would be handling the incoming Nazi force quite differently. He would be preparing to conduct an aggressive, scorched-earth campaign. Literally scorched earth.

He would force the SS to search through each room for him, one at a time, and when he saw them spread thin, which would happen before too long, he would take the path of least resistance, shooting his way through whoever was blocking his exit from the mansion while always racing forward, enacting his own personal blitzkrieg. He would rush headlong toward the outside, mowing down anyone in his path, while torching the place behind him, setting drapes, carpets, couches, and libraries aflame to protect his flank and trap as many hostiles inside as he could.

But if his German ally was able to kill the power, this would dictate an entirely different strategy. In this case, a raging fire would be the last thing he wanted, as this would provide enough light to level the playing field.

Boyd had busily collected weapons from the men he had downed. Now, along with the machine gun in his hands, he had another draped around his neck, two handguns shoved into two borrowed holsters, and two combat knives, one in a sheath at his side, and one in a sheath strapped to his right ankle.

He chose one of the many bedrooms and hid as nineteen Nazi soldiers spread out like scurrying cockroaches, clearing the larger rooms quickly and continuing to close in toward the middle of the wing. What he wouldn't give for just a single dragonfly drone, but this was for another life, far away in both time and space.

Boyd checked the time on his lens and scowled. He had been hiding for three minutes and any number of hostiles were nearing the room he was in. If he was going to switch gears and enact his blitzkrieg strategy, he needed to do it now.

And then it happened, just like that. The power crashed. It was as if a god had snapped his fingers, and every last light, inside and out, was instantly snuffed out, plunging the mansion complex into total darkness.

Hahn, you magnificent bastard, thought Boyd, borrowing the words that Patton had used when speaking of Rommel. He activated the night vision feature of his lenses and raced from the room, knowing the enemy would be dazed, terrified, and disorganized, and not wanting to give them a chance to regroup, mentally or physically.

He rushed through the premises and picked off four soldiers before they knew what had hit them. He was a sighted man in the midst of a blind, panicked mob, gunning down Nazis with bursts of his machine gun, not because the handgun wouldn't suffice, but knowing that nothing provoked terror like automatic fire.

The survivors, spread out over several rooms and open spaces, ran into each other or walls, and struggled to produce flashlights or light matches, which only served as beacons to alert Boyd to their locations.

The American picked off three more soldiers and then dived to the ground as several of the terrorized Nazis began shooting wildly at phantoms, only succeeding in killing each other in what had become nothing but a circular firing squad.

Boyd continued to spray those left standing, and less than a minute later, all but three of the hostiles were dead. He calmly located the final three survivors and picked them off with ease, not having even begun to break a sweat.

Boyd couldn't help but feel guilty by the unfairness of the battle, but he shook it off. These were members of the Waffen SS, not choirboys, and feeling guilty was better than being dead.


Kelly Connolly took in her surroundings and plotted blind escape routes as she moved toward the central mansion and what she could only guess would be an encounter with Adolf Hitler himself, something she dreaded beyond reason.

All lights vanished in an instant, and the mansion became a cave. Although she had been prepared for this very moment, she hesitated for just a few seconds, as an instinctive aversion to running blind through a cluttered room kicked in.

Finally, breaking free of her brief paralysis, she began moving, but it was too late. One of the two guards dived toward where she had been, blindly, and crashed into the back of her left leg, gripping it as they both fell and pulling her toward him.

She kicked and threw both elbows, but his grip was like steel, and she knew she wasn't going anywhere as his hold on her became more and more secure.

Finally, almost ten seconds later, the man's partner located his flashlight and turned it on, and she was let up from the floor at gunpoint, her situation unimproved.

Kelly heard almost continuous bursts of machine-gun fire through her comm and knew that Boyd had once again sprung into action in the south wing. The two members of Hitler's private guard heard the fire off in the distance and glanced at each other in disbelief, as if wondering how dozens of SS soldiers assigned to this site could possibly be having such a difficult time with just one man.

The firing continued unabated for what seemed like ages and then ceased entirely.

"Did you get them?" said Kelly out loud.

"I did," said Boyd, and her relief at hearing his voice was once again palpable, even though she had been more confident this time that he would come out on top. Her own spell in total darkness had driven home just how helpless a blind combatant truly was.

"Were you able to escape?" he asked her.

"Not so much. Turns out that running while blind isn't my strong suit."

"This is all my fault. How could I be so galactically stupid as to introduce you to Zimmerman as my wife?"

"Everyone's allowed to have their fantasies," she replied.

"Is that an attempt at humor?" said Boyd incredulously. "How can I possibly resist a woman who can joke under these circumstances?"

"You clearly can't."

"No doubt," said Boyd. "I need you to stay alert and optimistic," he continued. "They can't use you as leverage until I'm close enough for them to show me they have you and issue threats. I'm on my way to meet with Hahn. I promise you, Kelly, we're going to figure out a way to get you out of this."

"I'm going to hold you to that," she replied, as the two Germans prodding her on through the darkness shook their heads yet again, wondering just how crazy she had to be to persist in having a conversation with herself.


The American major found his German ally crouched low against the east wall of the central mansion in total darkness, his flashlight wisely switched off.

"It's Justin Boyd," he whispered as he neared, so as not to startle him. "Outstanding work, Major," he said.

"Thanks," said Hahn. "Apparently, you didn't do too badly yourself. So what now?"

"Kelly and I are wearing communication devices that you don't have in 1943," he whispered rapidly. "I can hear what she hears, and talk to her from here. Hitler's personal bodyguards have her. My guess is that they're bringing her to where Hitler is now as an insurance policy against me."

"Do you think he's still in the war room?"

"Yes," said Boyd. "But they're about to arrive, so I need to stop talking and listen in."

The German nodded his understanding.

Kelly arrived at her destination only seconds later. "Welcome, Frau Boyd," said a heavily accented voice in Boyd's ear. "Your husband has been more trouble than we thought he'd be. But don't worry, my comrades will have him here soon."

"Your comrades are dead," said Kelly in contempt. "And my husband is just getting started."

"Kelly, I need to know how many soldiers are with you," said Boyd, speaking aloud for Hahn's benefit, "and if they brought you to the war room. And don't just tell me directly, since some speak English and might become suspicious."

"Do you really need six men to keep your Fuhrer safe from a helpless woman?" said Kelly.

"I'm not sure the guard you killed would agree that you're helpless," said the male voice.

"I heard there's a war room on site. Is that where we are now?"

"Yes. It's right through that door. The Fuhrer is inside, working."

"Well done, Kelly," said Boyd. "But keep him talking. The more he talks, the more we learn."

"So what's he doing in there?" she continued. "Is he coming up with war plans by flashlight? You and your men should really go out and restore the power. I'll wait here."

"We will soon. We have all the fuses we need. But we can spare a few minutes until your husband arrives."

"Spare a few minutes?" said Kelly in disgust. "What you really mean is that you're terrified to face my husband. And why not? You only outnumber him six to one. Your cowardice is pathetic."

"Watch your tongue!" spat the SS soldier angrily. "Don't think I won't kill you because you're a woman."

"No, I know you will. Most of you SS monsters enjoy killing women and children. I'm sure your mother is very proud. But we both know that you need me. At least for now. And I'm going to make sure that your Fuhrer knows his private bodyguards left him in the dark because they didn't have the courage to change a few fuses."

"He isn't in the dark!" barked the man angrily.

"Really?" said Kelly. "Then why don't I see any light under the door?"

Boyd's forehead wrinkled in confusion. The soldier had been adamant that the room was still lighted. But if this was so, and the outside waiting area was dark, Kelly would certainly detect a glow coming from under the door.

Boyd gasped. Of course. Because Hitler wasn't in his war room. He was underneath it. He was in a system of rooms and tunnels that must be served by a backup generator, providing ample lighting, since the entire subterranean lair was there for emergencies. He was in a private suite of panic rooms.

That's where they were installing the second set of phones, and why the site wasn't quite finished. The mansion was ready, but the subterranean part was still being completed.

He should have guessed this sooner. Almost no one in 1943 could have done so, but he had the benefit of having just learned the history of the war.

In 1945, the Russians had laid siege to Berlin, and Hitler had been found dead inside an underground command center at his Berlin headquarters, having taken his own life. It was later discovered that the Berghof possessed an extensive subterranean bunker system, as well, consisting of numerous rooms and multi-level concrete tunnels, along with its own power, heating, and ventilation systems. If these other two command centers had been constructed with subterranean lairs, this one would be too.

"Kelly, say the following," he instructed. "'Your Fuhrer is in a bunker, isn't he? Below the war room.'"

"He's in a bunker below the war room, isn't he?" said Kelly immediately. "Which is why he has working lights," she continued, taking Boyd's lead and running with it. "Because he has a backup generator down there. I should have known he'd be cowering underground," she added.

"The Fuhrer is not cowering!" thundered the SS soldier. "He's there for the lighting, not because he fears for his safety. There are two of my men with him, and we're out here. He has never been safer. He's furious, but he isn't worried in the slightest."

"He should be worried," said Kelly ominously. "Because he's as good as dead already. My husband will see to that. I hope you're at least calling in reinforcements to make this fair."

The man snorted derisively. "Reinforcements?" he said in disgust. "For what? Your husband is probably dead, and mansion security hasn't reported it yet because they're afraid of displeasing the Fuhrer."

Perfect, thought Boyd. She had elicited a yes on the underground lair, and a no on reinforcements. "Brilliantly done," he said in admiration. "But I need to leave you for a minute. Be back soon."

He turned quickly to Hahn. "What do you know about the underground tunnels here?" he asked.

"Underground tunnels?" the German repeated in confusion.

"Damn," said Boyd in disappointment. "I need to think," he added hurriedly, cutting off further conversation.

The tunnels would have various entrances and exits, and he needed to find one in a hurry. But they could be anywhere. The problem was daunting.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to stay calm, to think logically.

If he was in the war room when an enemy force was approaching, what would he want to be in place? First, he'd want a hidden trapdoor that led underground. And then he'd want a tunnel that would allow him to escape by traveling right under the advancing enemy line. He'd want at least one exit that was fairly close. Possibly near a car that he could use to flee to safety.

An image of the elaborate swastika hedge flashed into his mind's eye, and his mouth fell open.

That would be the perfect spot for a tunnel exit.

Its eight-foot walls would offer absolute concealment, and it would provide immediate access to the vehicles parked on the roundabout.

"Kelly," he said excitedly, "I know how we can turn this around. A frontal assault won't work. Not when they have you. But I might have found a backdoor. I'm going to assume I have and put together a quick plan with Major Hahn. Stop talking and listen in. If I'm wrong we'll have to keep thinking, but my gut tells me I'm not."

He paused. "Cough if you understand."

"Cough," she said out loud.

Boyd couldn't help but smile. Kelly Connolly was nothing if not an original.


Justin Boyd crept along the brick and concrete tunnels with practiced quiet, having found the entrance he was looking for within the expansive hedge sculpture, hidden just below the soil at the intersection of the two hooked swastika arms.

The tunnel system was extensive, although "tunnel" was really a misnomer, as these were finished rectangular corridors, seven feet high, with electric bulbs in the ceiling every eight yards.

He passed several uninhabited rooms, both finished and unfinished, and stopped in one that appeared to be an infirmary, with stainless steel tables, scalpels, blood pressure cuffs, splints, bandages, and a whole host of other equipment, all of it brand-new. Nothing but the best for Hitler and any wounded and retreating members of the German High Command.

He carefully opened various cabinets until he came across several green rolls of tape that beckoned to him like an old friend. Duct tape. Incredible. He had learned the history of this miracle product during his recent cramming on the war. It had only been invented by the Allies three months earlier, and must have been taken from fallen American troops.

A mother and ordnance-factory worker had come up with the idea, and she had sent a letter to FDR explaining how such tape could be used to more reliably package ammunition boxes and save lives. Not only did FDR pass this idea on to J&J to produce—originally called duck tape for its duck-like resistance to water—but soldiers soon found the tape indispensable for repairing equipment and even sealing wounds.

Boyd shoved a roll in his pocket and moved back into the tunnel. He had other uses for it in mind.

He soon neared a room he estimated to be directly under the war room, and he was easily able to hear the breathing of the three men inside. He hugged a wall and inched closer until he could just see beyond the open door.

His breath caught in his throat as Adolf Hitler came into view.

Boyd's mind almost refused to accept what he was seeing. Arguably the most contemptible human the species had ever produced, he was even more repulsive than his pictures had suggested, his hair greasy and his eyes cold and dead. He was engrossed in a large map on a table, while two guards stood idly by, their backs to Boyd, here only so their Fuhrer could have working lights, and feeling more secure, more untouchable, than they ever had.

If these men were hyper-alert, hyper-vigilant, Boyd's enhanced reflexes would still win the day. But given their false sense of security, a first-year cadet could take them out.

The room looked soundproof, which would be important to the Nazis to ensure they didn't give away their presence to an invading force in the mansion above. Even so, Boyd wanted to minimize noise, and set his machine gun down gently on the ground.

He readied a handgun and burst through the door, putting holes through the skulls of both guards before they had even begun to turn.

Hitler jumped, and his eyes bulged out in shock and terror as Boyd pointed a gun at his chest. "Freeze!" he hissed through clenched teeth, fighting off an almost irresistible urge to pull the trigger.

Hitler didn't speak English, but Boyd's meaning was clear.

"Sit," he said subvocally, and Sage pronounced the German word in his ear, as he had instructed the AI to do before entering the room. "Sitzen!" he demanded, parroting his AI.

Hitler studied him with contempt, a man who had believed himself invincible for too long, but finally sat in the chair in front of him.

"Speak and you're dead," he said subvocally to Sage, who supplied him with the correctly pronounced German translation. "Sprechen und du bist tot!" he barked out loud. "Move and you're dead!" he added seconds later.

Hitler tested this threat, slowly moving his hand lower under the table, and Boyd shot, carving a shallow but bloody groove across the top of his shoulder.

The American proceeded to bind the prisoner's hands behind him with five revolutions of duct tape, and slapped a piece of this miracle product over his mouth, silencing a man whose poisoned discourse was as putrid as the endless discharge of gas from his flatulent body.

Boyd felt disgusted, diseased, to even be breathing the same air as this man. He would have preferred dunking his head in a vat of cockroaches to touching Hitler's oily skin. He wondered if he would ever feel clean again.

Boyd's lack of German necessitated he communicate in very short sentences. "I can kill you," he said, repeating back Sage's translation, "Ich kann dich toten. But I won't. I just want my wife. Ich will nur meine Frau. And to escape to England. So, here's the deal. First choice, we go back to your war room. You order your men to send my wife in—alone. All by herself. Then I tie and gag you. And escape through your tunnel."

The American paused. "Take this option and you stay alive. And unhurt. I give you my word. Ich gebe dir mein Wort. Unlike you, I'm a man of honor. So this means something.

"Or, second choice," hissed Boyd through clenched teeth, "zweite Wahl. You cross me. In that case, I shoot out your kneecaps and blind you with my knife."

He leaned in menacingly. "Your decision. Deine Entscheidung."

Boyd stared ferociously into Hitler's eyes with utter contempt. "I almost hope you do cross me," he added in halting German as he pulled a combat knife from its sheath with maniacal zeal.

"Your move, Adolf."


Kurt Hahn had been crouching silently behind a life-sized statue of a royal Lipizzaner stallion for almost ten minutes now, clutching a machine gun. He was growing restless. The statue was in a library just beyond the ballroom-sized outer waiting area abutting Hitler's war room, and it was still dark as a cave.

But this wasn't true of the immediate vicinity of the war-room door, which was illuminated by several flashlights to reveal six of Hitler's handpicked guards, with Kelly Connolly out front, being used as a human shield. The men appeared more and more troubled with every passing moment. When Hahn had arrived, a single gun had been pressed into Kelly's back. But a second gun, held by a separate guard, had soon been added for good measure, and was now being held against the back of her skull.

No member of mansion security had yet arrived to report, and it was becoming clear that Justin Boyd had killed every last one of them. The question was, had he been fatally wounded in the effort? If so, he was now also lying dead in the far south wing.

If not, if he had prevailed, unscathed, then he was out there, planning, waiting patiently for an opening to free his wife.

If this latter was the case, the guards' flashlights and tight formation made them sitting ducks, which they could only mitigate by making sure that Kelly couldn't possibly survive an attack.

Hahn continued waiting for something to happen. Either Boyd would tap him on the shoulder, and he would know that the American had failed to find the tunnel entrance, or he would see evidence that the opposite was true. Either way, it would happen soon.

Right on cue, three short, distinct German sentences were shouted through the closed door of the war room, so loudly that even Hahn could hear them. Shouted sentences unmistakably issued by Adolf Hitler, himself, whose standard public speaking voice was little more than a shriek.

"Send the girl in here!" demanded the Fuhrer. "Alone! Now!"

Hahn's heart raced and he felt light-headed. Boyd had done it! It was hard for the SS major to believe he wasn't dreaming. After all this time, after so many failed attempts to assassinate Adolf Hitler, the time had come at last.

The guards wouldn't be happy about having to give up their human shield, but disobeying a direct order wasn't an option either.

"The Fuhrer would like you to join him, Frau Boyd," said the chief of security in English. "By yourself," he added, gesturing to the door.

Hahn readied himself for action, gritting his teeth in anticipation.

Kelly didn't hesitate to honor this request, well aware that Justin Boyd was behind it, and knowing that her safety and freedom were but a few feet away. She barged through the door and slammed it shut behind her the moment she could.

Hahn waited three seconds for Kelly to work her way deeper into the room and then stepped out from behind the large statue, opening fire with absolute glee. He sprayed the six guards with machine-gun rounds, moving from side to side and then back again, as though he were holding a fire hose and dousing a particularly fierce blaze.

Hahn took his finger off the trigger and marched toward the war room, making his way by the light of two fallen flashlights that hadn't been blown to bits like the others.

It was time to meet Adolf Hitler.

And to send him to the fires of hell where he belonged.


Kelly entered the war room, which Boyd was illuminating with a single flashlight, and rushed into his arms, kissing him hungrily. Both of them had initiated this at the same time, spontaneously, as if such a greeting was obvious and preordained, while the welcome sounds of machine-gun fire greeted them from outside the door.

Kurt Hahn was carrying out his part of the mission, right on cue.

Kelly reluctantly ended their kiss and almost gagged as she caught her first glimpse of the ruthless psychopath who made the worst serial killer of her day look like a harmless kitten. Adolf Hitler, in the bone-chilling flesh. His hands were duct taped to the back of a chair, and Boyd had re-taped the German tyrant's mouth shut the moment he had finished issuing his command.

The door opened once again, and a beaming Kurt Hahn stood before the threshold. "We did it!" he said triumphantly.

But as he took a step into the room, one of Hitler's guards, bleeding out on the ground, managed to squeeze off two shots before expiring, one piercing Hahn's stomach and another his chest.

The SS major fell forward into darkness, coughing blood.

"Nooo!" shouted Boyd in horror, rushing over to the fallen soldier and kneeling down beside him.

"You're going to be okay, Kurt," he assured him. "Hang in there. There's an infirmary underground, and I'll have you patched up in no time."

Hahn shook his head, almost imperceptibly. "Can't save me," he whispered as more blood fell from his mouth. "It's okay. Was... swept up in evil. Did terrible things. Tried to... make amends. But... deserve this."

He turned his head. "Show me... Hitler," he said faintly.

Boyd shined his flashlight on the Nazi Fuhrer tied to a chair.

Hahn managed the hint of a smile, despite being seconds away from death, and roused up the energy to spit a ball of blood in Hitler's direction. "Kill him," he pleaded. "Hurry. Before I... go."

"I will," said Boyd. "But you need to know you have made amends, have redeemed yourself. And we couldn't have made it without you."

Boyd quickly made his way over to the prisoner, setting a flashlight on the table so the beam was directed at Hitler's face. He then stood behind him and forced one forearm under his chin and pressed hard on the back of his head with the other.

Hitler thrashed against his bonds and screamed into his duct-tape gag, but seconds later became absolutely still.

Boyd released the monster's head and watched in satisfaction as it collapsed against his chest and lolled around lifelessly.

"He's dead," he said simply to Kurt Hahn.

A euphoric smile spread across the German's face. "Thank you," he whispered, and then, closing his eyes, he took his final breath, dying happily with the knowledge that this psychopathic scourge on Germany and the entire human race was finally gone.