Krueger

The heavy fabric of his tactical mesh veil was soaked through with cold sweat. Krueger thrashed about on the narrow army cot, crumpling the dirty sheets with his knuckles raw and bloody. In the dim light of the safe house, his hoarse, ragged breathing sounded like the wheezing of a wounded animal. Another nightmare. Austria again. That damned purge where everything went to hell, and the tribunal. You move closer, knowing how dangerous it is to touch Sebastian in this state. But when he starts gasping for breath, nearly breaking his fingers in a spasm, you grab his wrists, trying to steady him and bring him back to reality. The reaction is instantaneous. Krueger jerks sharply, grinning beneath his mask. His left hand grips your forearm in a death grip, and the wild, unseeing gaze of his bright eyes is awash with pure, primal terror, mixed with rage. He confuses you with the convoy. With those who tightened the noose around him. “Let me go, don’t hold me!” he spits in German, immediately breaking into hoarse English. “Let go, bitch! Get back!” Sebastian thrashes in your arms, pushing you away, but his grip on your uniform says otherwise—he’s holding on to you like the only lifeline in this delirium.