London

1940

9:00 a.m.

Drake gave the wooden door before him two subtle knocks and waited. Then he knocked again. No answer. He took a deep breath and turned the knob, peering inside. A man in a wheelchair rested in the corner.

“Rory?”

The crippled man continued to stare absently at the mosaic window before him, streaks of white light shining through it while shadows stabbed into the rest of the room. Drake glanced at the room as he approached the man. Because of its limited space he deduced it had been a storage room turned bedroom. As the war raged on, England needed every resource available to them. Drake did too…

“Rory?” he repeated.

The man rotated the wheelchair towards him. Drake grimaced, struggling to keep his stare at the man. His right eye was only a deep cavity. His other eye remained blank, glassy. Stitches and fresh wounds covered his face, what remained of his nose and mouth were only jagged edges of flesh. His head had been partially shaved, showing more deep wounds. Drake could still see the white fire festering in his eye. He removed his hat and held it at his side reverently.

“What the hell do you want!” Rory said, his teeth gritting.

Drake knelt before him. “Rory. I — I’m sorry I didn’t know —”

“' — that it was a bloody ambush! My son screamed when he saw me!”

Drake closed his eyes. Rory’s words stung, but soon his venom died, turning into quiet sobs. He held Rory’s hands in his own.

“Rory,” he said, “Let me help you. I’ll give you the bite. You’ll be able to walk, run, and do things most people only dream about—”

Rory raised a hand and shook his head. “I don’t need your sympathy. Just — just leave.”

Drake stood, placing the hat over his head. He caught the gaze of a crucifix resting on a nightstand before turning away. “Before I go, tell me one thing…”

He reached in his pocket and pulled out a photo; its subject, a beautiful maiden with hair as white as the coldest winter, violet eyes and angelic features. He held it out before Rory.

“Can you identify this woman? Her name was Irene Irons.”

Rory burst into a hysterical laughter. Drake’s face grew dark with anger. Then Rory pointed at his eye. “Doctor explained to me the optic nerve in my eye had been severed. The bastard told me I was lucky to be alive. Can you believe that? Sorry, but I can’t help you…”

Drake could sense the hesitation in his voice, hear the rhythm of his heart beat out of sync. He stuffed the photo in his pocket and started towards the door. He debated killing the miserable fuck, putting him out of his misery, Maybe turn him against his will. Then he realized no matter what, Rory’s hatred would be eternal.

His hand gripped the knob when Rory spoke.

“There might be one person…”

Drake turned around. “Who?”

“Charon Dubois,” Rory replied. “He was very close to Irene and her father in India. Now he leads one of the resistance cells in France. If he’s still alive — he’ll be able to identify her.”

“Thank you…”

Rory sneered and dismissed Drake with a wave. “Just go…”

1:33 a.m.

A roaring train brought Drake back to his senses as he waited by the train platform. A steel beast, black as night, came to a screeching stop, releasing a cloud of steam from its exhaust. He observed the train front to back unable to tell where it ended. A group of soldiers exclaimed in German as they greeted the departing party from the train. Most of them fresh recruits and officers not yet baptized to war’s fury.

His breath turned into a specter as he exhaled and flicked away a cigarette, blue eyes glaring in the darkness. A uniformed officer sauntered next to him and shivered, hugging his body.

“Cigarettes?” he asked.

Drake offered a carton to which the officer took one and held it in his lips. He leaned closer to Drake as he lit his cigarette. The officer sighed in relief, shrugged, and rubbed his hands together.

“You’re not cold?”

Drake stuffed his hands in his coat pockets. “No.”

Hanz chuckled. The two of them watched as more German soldiers unloaded troops, supplies, and tanks from the train. The train exhaust hissed as more steam rose into the air. Silver light from the moon pierced through the black sky. Soldiers shouted orders as more troops fell into formation and marched towards the train station.

“As promised…” Drake prompted. “Two hundred thousand rounds of ammunition, five hundred rifles and machine guns, six Panzers, and two Tiger Is.”

Hanz took one last puff from his cigarette and extinguished it beneath his boot. He turned to Drake and scowled. As his body hit the light, Drake could see more of his weathered face and hawk-like features. Blonde strands of hair peaked beneath his cap with intense blue eyes, much like Drake’s.

The iron cross hanging from Hanz’s neck shimmered, and Drake regarded him coldly. “You’re upset?”

“I was told five Tigers…”

Drake pulled out more cigarettes, lit them both, and handed the other to Hanz. “My warehouse was attacked by resistance fighters in Norway. They disabled three, but my men got these onto the train. Be grateful for what you have.”

“We paid you for five tanks —”

Drake’s eyes illuminated as he gave Hanz a piercing stare. Fangs peaked from his mouth. “And you’ll get them when they’re ready. If there’s nothing else, I’ll be going back to London. Good day colonel…”

He nodded and made a sharp turn away from Hanz. Godfrey, Drake’s butler, stood by a black BMW parked by the train station. He opened the backdoor, eager for his master’s return.

Hanz took a deep draw of his cigarette. “Which side are you on — Merchant of Death?”

Drake stopped and looked over his shoulder and answered in a flat voice: “Mine.”

And he stepped into his car and drove away.