The Third Reich:Shadows of the Golden Eagle

Chapter 152: The Way to Moscow

"Mhm." Maler parted his lips slightly before closing them again.

"AHHH!!!"

A loud scream tore Maler out of his sleep as he snapped his eyes open. For a millisecond, everything was blurry. There was a silhouette blocking the sun from outside the shack. It held something in its hand. An axe, perhaps.

"Drop it!" he heard Baumann’s voice.

"Don’t!" Sasha, the elderly woman, shouted from behind. A row of gunshots tore through the old shack.

Maler parted his lips again, this time feeling a liquid on them. It was crimson red, tasting like metal.

Finally, everything became clear. Maler was covered in blood, the source lying lifeless before him on the old wheat, dozens of holes torn through the clothes.

"Fuck!" Maler shouted, turning around hectically, his eyes landing on Baumann, who leaned against a wooden beam, clutching his chest with one hand and holding the submachine gun in the other.

"He wanted to kill us, Maler," Baumann whispered, his hands shaking slightly, sweat running down his forehead.

Maler, in turn, breathed heavily, looking back at the corpse of the elderly man. The object he had seen in the man’s hand was nothing more than a bottle of vodka, now lying beside his still-warm body.

"What have you done?!" Sasha screamed, tears running down her cheeks as she rushed toward her dead husband.

Maler stepped closer to Baumann, carefully raising his hand and touching Baumann’s forehead.

It was burning hot.

"You have a fever," Maler whispered, almost lifelessly himself, the woman’s screams still echoing through the lonely shack.

"What?" Baumann asked loudly.

Maler suddenly clenched his jaw, grabbing Baumann by the collar.

"You have a fever!" he shouted, shaking him, while Baumann didn’t know what to do or say.

"I... I..." he stammered.

Maler sighed deeply, slowly turning around.

"Where is she? Where is she!" Maler repeated, Sasha now nowhere to be seen.

Maler hastily walked outside the shack. The cold winter air was even more piercing than before.

"No, no." Maler raised his hand.

"You said your name was Sasha. Don’t do this, please..." His other hand was already at his belt, coiled around his Luger pistol.

Sasha’s eyebrow twitched as she raised the axe of her husband, lying beside the freshly chopped firewood.

She ran toward Maler.

"Please... please don’t, don’t, don’t."

Closer.

"Please stop!"

Closer.

BANG.

With that, Sasha joined Vitaly.

"Hah, hah, hah." Maler breathed out heavily once again, shaking violently.

"FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!!!" He screamed his lungs out, not caring if anyone would hear him.

His body shook violently, his breath uneven. The cold air burned in his lungs, yet he barely felt it.

With his frantic movements, his chain slipped out from beneath his coat, now hanging freely.

Maler froze.

For a brief moment, everything else seemed to fade. His eyes locked onto the small piece of gold, faintly gleaming even in the dull winter light. It swayed slightly with his breathing.

A memory surfaced.

Uninvited.

A week earlier.

"Much luck." Paul patted Skorzeny on the shoulder, meeting his eyes before moving on.

Then he stood in front of Maler.

For a second, Maler forgot to breathe. Meeting the Führer for the first time felt unreal, as if he had stepped into someone else’s life.

"Your name is Maler, correct?" Paul asked, stroking his chin.

"Yes, my Führer. I am deeply honored," Maler replied, raising his chin slightly, forcing his voice to remain steady.

"Your chain is very nice," Paul suddenly said, noticing the piece of gold barely visible beneath Maler’s collar.

"I apologize, sir," Maler said quickly, a flicker of shame crossing his face as he tried to hide it.

"No need." Paul shook his head slightly. "It will bring you luck..." He paused briefly, as if recalling the name. "Maler."

Present.

He blinked.

Once. Twice.

His breath evened out slightly. The trembling in his hands faded just enough for him to regain control.

He could think again.

Without another word, Maler turned and hurried back into the Soviet house. His eyes scanned everything, fast, precise, searching for anything that could help. Medicine. Alcohol. Anything.

Nothing.

He grabbed what he could. A couple of thick blankets, still dry enough to be useful. Then a key hanging near the door.

Maler stepped back outside.

"Come, Baumann. Here, take this." He handed him the blankets without slowing down.

"And I take this." Maler pulled the submachine gun from Baumann’s weakened grip, slinging it over his shoulder as he moved.

Baumann followed, wrapped in the blankets, his breath shallow.

They rounded the house.

And there it stood.

An old car. Very old.

Rust clung to the metal, the paint long faded and peeling. One of the tires looked barely inflated. It was some kind of small truck, the kind used for simple labor.

Maler stopped for a brief second, eyes scanning it.

It might work.

Baumann sank into the passenger seat with a quiet groan while Maler fetched a canister of fuel from inside the house.

"Let’s pray this works," Maler muttered, pouring the fuel in. Then he climbed into the driver’s seat.

He turned the key.

A dull click.

Again.

The engine coughed. A weak, lifeless sound, like something trying to wake from the dead.

"Come on..." he muttered under his breath.

He tried again.

Another cough. Slightly stronger this time, but still not enough.

Baumann shifted beside him, breathing heavily.

"Please..." Maler whispered, almost to himself.

One more turn.

The engine stuttered.

And then, with a rough, grinding roar, it finally came to life.

Kiev, at the same time.

"One coffee, please," a man said in Russian, his accent surprisingly faint. Good enough for the waitress to remain oblivious to his true identity.

He sat back, crossing his legs, his posture relaxed but controlled. Only his eyes moved, briefly flicking toward the man sitting opposite him.

Dressed nearly the same. Heavy winter coat. Worn boots. Nothing that would stand out.

"So far, so good, huh?" Seiler leaned forward slightly, whispering in German, a hint of admiration in his voice as he looked at his commander.

"Don’t grow cocky now, Seiler," Skorzeny hissed quietly, raising his index finger without looking at him.

Seiler straightened immediately.

"For now, we wait. We lie low. But that doesn’t mean you relax." Skorzeny’s voice remained calm, controlled. "Just because our mission has a specific timeframe doesn’t mean we can afford mistakes before then."

Seiler nodded quickly.

"And it won’t be long anymore. We depart tonight," Skorzeny added, his gaze drifting for a moment toward the low-hanging sun outside.

A brief pause.

"Hopefully everything goes according to plan with the other groups. Our timing only works if they succeed as well."

He tilted his head slightly as the waitress returned, balancing two cups on her tray.

"Here you go, sir," she said with a bright smile, placing the coffee on the table.

Skorzeny’s gaze dropped to the cup. The surface of the coffee swayed slightly from the motion, small ripples breaking the reflection for just a second before settling again.

Outskirts of Odessa, same time.

Gustaf watched the sea, the view partially blocked by the thin line of trees in front of him. The wind carried the distant sound of waves, mixing with the low rumble of the truck beneath them.

"Gentlemen." A voice came from the front of the truck, laced with a heavy Russian accent.

"We will arrive at the gate soon. On with your uniforms," he added, far too enthusiastic for the situation.

Gustaf glanced to the side.

Herrmann met his look, a grim look on his face, sharing that same enthusiasm as they both reached for the uniforms.

The fabric was rough. Still damp.

And stained with blood.

"Who knows where you got these from, Josef," Gustaf muttered grimly as he pulled the uniform over his shoulders.

Josef turned around slightly from the front seat.

"Well, I stripped them from the dead ones."

Gustaf stared at him for a moment, speechless, then slowly shook his head as he adjusted the shoulder strap.

"And how exactly are you planning to explain the blood?" he asked.

Josef let out a short laugh.

"You’ll see, my friend... you’ll see..."

-------------------------------------

The coming Chapters will be full of action.

Thank you all for the support! I appreciate every Power Stone, comment, and review.