Berlin — July 20, 1948, Tuesday night
Getting Hildeto the hospital was the right thing—of course it was—but the closer we got to the American sector, the more my heart hammered against my ribs. Berlin didn't like it when people crossed invisible lines. And for a German to get near the barracks was a thick red one.
Gideon carried Hilde against his chest, wrapped in his jacket, her tiny face tucked under his chin. Klaus walked close by my side. Axel stayed on my other flank, stiff and alert like a guard dog half his size. We moved through the darkened street, still lit in places by lanterns and makeshift fires smoldering in oil drums.
Halfway there, Gideon's hand slid to my back, gentle but firm. "Stay close," he said quietly.
"I am," I whispered, scanning the ruins out of habit.
"No—closer." His voice dropped even lower. "Someone's behind us."
A bolt of panic shot through me. I followed his line of sight. A figure stood half hidden between the shattered columns of an old post building. Not moving. Just… watching.
My stomach tightened. "Probably Bastian. He was angry that we interfered. He doesn't forget."
"That's not a kid," Gideon murmured. "Too big. Too still."
Cold settled at the base of my spine. A grown man watching children from the shadows… nothing good ever followed that.
I grabbed Klaus's hand. "Don't look back. Just walk."
We'd just passed by the edge of a ruined square when raised voices cracked the air, sharp, panicked, French. Three French soldiers were pressed against a wall, weapons drawn but hands shaking, while six Russians loomed over them, drunk or eager for trouble or both.
Gideon stopped dead. "Keep going," he told me.
I stared at him. "Gideon?—"
"Go," he said again, placing Hilde carefully into my arms. "I'll catch up."
I didn't move. And neither did the boys.
Axel shook his head. "No."
Klaus planted his feet. "We stay with you."
Gideon cursed softly. "I don't have time to argue."
"We're not leaving," I said, breath tight. "Not while you?—"
He gritted his teeth so hard I heard it. His eyes flared, and I could have sworn I saw gold glinting in them. This was the third time I'd noticed it, and a shiver ran through me. Not in a bad way, though. He turned toward the Russians. He didn't walk. He stalked—filled with a power I'd never seen contained in a single body.
The French soldiers looked up, desperate hope flickering. The Russians spun, one laughed, one spat, one raised a fist. And Gideon moved.
Fast.
Too fast to follow.
One Russian went down immediately; he hit the ground so hard the sound cracked like a broken tree limb. Another lunged, and Gideon blocked him with an arm that didn't budge an inch. He twisted, fluid as water, and the man flew backward into rubble.
A third tried to draw a knife. Gideon's boot kicked it out of his hand and sent him sprawling. Another Russian tried to swing his rifle, Gideon stepped in, yanked it from him like plucking a twig, and threw the weapon so far over his shoulder, I never saw where it landed.
The last two hesitated, trading uncertain looks. Gideon cracked his neck, like he was just getting started, and they ran.
Just like that.
The boys didn't breathe.
Neither did I.
