Hagen’s breath hitched, and he looked away. John adjusted his stance. The shaking in the man’s shoulders gave it away. He was crying. Before long, tears ran down his face, and the chains clanked when he pulled at them, probably trying in vain to cover his face.
“Who’s Siegfried?” He asked, maybe to refocus the man’s attention, give him something else to do besides cry. Trigger the rage again. He knew how to deal with that one.
But he might as well have tried to get a flame from an empty lighter.
“Who is he, Hagen?”
“Was,” the man choked out. “Him. That was him.”
“I don’t understand.” John furrowed his brow. “Are you telling me the man who died in here—in the very same chair you’re sitting in”—the sudden intake of breath answered the question—“was Siegfried?”
Hagen pulled against his restraints, staring skyward with wet, red eyes. “Gott, Siegfried . . .”
“So he was the other soldier.”
“He was not just a soldier, you damned pig,” Hagen snarled with renewed fury. “He was a major.”
John lifted one eyebrow. “Your commander?”
“No.” Hagen’s gaze dropped. Then his shoulders did. Barely whispering, he said, “He was my brother.”
The way they’d both spat at him. It had made his hair stand up. Ironic, that the resemblance was in gesture rather than their features. But now that he looked for it—really looked for it—Hagen did resemble the other man. Siegfried. Oh damn, pair of jacks in poker. Finally John’s hand was starting to look like something, after pulling junk after junk. If that was true, he might be able to double down—get info on them both. Brothers talked. At the very least, he could put a name with the man who’d been here before, not that it did him any good.
Hagen was paler blond, clearly the younger man by five or more years. Whereas Siegfried had seemed more refined and cultured despite that ugly scar on his face, this one was coarser—features rougher, responses more honest. Though making that comparison between one who’d been dying and one who was still mostly in full possession of his faculties was misleading. He was jumping to conclusions. Something had driven the other men to beat Siegfried into submission, and John doubted it was anything gentlemanly.
John shouldn’t let Hagen see just how much relief washed through him at having been granted a second chance at cracking the riddle. Though Hagen likely saw nothing. He was still crying, and that in itself was interesting to watch. He was clearly trying to suppress it, rein it all in and not show weakness, but it broke through the surface every time he tamped down on it. This man had strong emotions and wasn’t jaded enough to deny them. So promising to work with.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. Even though the bastard had killed Michael—perhaps especially because of that—he could appreciate grief and pain. Building rapport between them would be based on emotions. He’d get into Hagen’s head and take control. He owed Michael that much.
“You’re sorry for nothing,” Hagen growled. “It’s war. You kill.” The shrug was probably intended to be much more flippant than it actually was. “It’s the way of things.”
“So I gathered last night,” John said through his teeth.
Hagen met his eyes and offered a sniff of vague amusement. “I’d say that makes us even, but it was my brother you killed.”
“I killed no one.” John ran his finger along the back edge of the razor. “You, however . . .”
“Be thankful I didn’t kill you too.”
John arched an eyebrow and turned the razor between his fingers. “Just because I haven’t killed anyone yet doesn’t mean I won’t.”
No fear appeared in Hagen’s expression. Just more anger twitching at the wounded corner of his mouth. “Do what you must. You’ve gotten all you’ll get from the Friedrich brothers.”
“Friedrich?” John smirked. “So you have a last name.”
At that, Hagen shifted his gaze away, his mouth forming a curse that didn’t reach John’s ears.
John regarded him for a long moment, letting the only sounds in the room be the quietly clinking chains between Hagen’s hands and the opening-closing-opening of the razor in his own. His gaze slid from the Nazi’s face to his chest, and something in John’s own chest tightened as he memorized every rip and stain in the uniform. In Michael’s uniform.
He stood. “Guard,” he said sharply without taking his eyes off Hagen.
Alarm briefly appeared on Hagen’s face, but was quickly replaced by smoldering hatred when the door opened.
“Yes, sir?”
John didn’t look anywhere but right at Hagen. “Put him on his feet.”
Hagen gulped.
The guards freed the chain that connected Hagen’s handcuffs with the chair, then hauled him to his feet by his arms. Each kept a tight grip on one of his biceps.
John took his time moving closer to Hagen, letting the narrowing distance fuck with the German’s mind for a moment. When they were face-to-face, so close John could smell Michael on Hagen, he took a deep breath to contain his own rage. He nodded at one of the guards, then slapped his hand down on Hagen’s shoulder.
“Bring in the uniform they found on Corporal Bennett.”
“Yes, sir.”
He waited for the guard to leave. Then he gave Hagen a slow down-up look. Their eyes met again, and John dragged the dull edge of the razor down the center of Hagen’s chest. “I don’t like that uniform on you.”
Hagen paused, the words filtering through the haze of pain and rage in his mind. He half expected the man to flip the razor blade and slash his face, and he tried to steel himself against the gaping terror of that thought. He should have asked one more favor, traded one more piece of information with the enemy, and he resented the fact that he hadn’t thought of it earlier.
He wanted to see the body. Who knew what they were doing to his brother right now—tossing him half-burned into an unmarked hole, most likely. Probably just a ditch, downwind of the camp so the wild dogs and the smell wouldn’t—
He shook his head, glanced at the man, who was starting to look impatient. The uniform would give nothing away. It would feel more familiar, though, maybe set him at ease. But changing out of his might reveal the papers the guards had overlooked. They’d found all his weapons, but he’d given them enough of a fight that they hadn’t pressed on, maybe on orders to not kill this one.
“You want me to change? Here?” Maybe he could win a little time. “What are you, a pervert?” Mock outrage, and a stare at the American—he knew exactly what this man was. He’d play that game. Right now, that and the pain were all he had.
The man grinned, a sly look that made Hagen’s skin crawl. His dark eyes flicked toward Sieg’s razor, and when they met Hagen’s again, they narrowed.
“You might be hard-pressed to change your clothes with your hands bound,” he said. “I think you might need a little . . .”—another glance at Sieg’s razor—“help.”
Hagen tried not to gulp. He’d shown enough weakness without revealing fear as well.
The second American guard returned holding a folded gray uniform that stood out from the dark green he himself wore. “The uniform, sir,” he said as if the man who’d commanded him was a blind fool. Hagen would’ve liked to think he was a fool. Now he wasn’t so sure.
“Put it on the table.” The man nodded toward a table in the corner of the room. The soldier did as ordered, and the man with Sieg’s razor looked straight at Hagen. “Leave us.”
The other soldiers didn’t move.
“Are you sure, sir?”
“I believe I spoke clearly.”
“All right. We’ll be right outside.”
They both glanced at Hagen, then each other. Then they left him alone with this man, the razor, and the uniform.
With his hands bound at his back, Hagen was at a disadvantage, yes, but not entirely defenseless. This interrogator had to know that, which made Hagen wonder what he had in mind. The
razor was even more disconcerting than the gun on the man’s hip. The latter could slow his escape. Could kill him—“Don’t fucking kill this one”—or just keep him from making it to the door, leaving him at the mercy of a hand with a blade in it. The razor could inflict all manner of painful, nonlethal damage, anything from tiny cuts to gouging out an eye, depending entirely on how sadistic—and patient—this interrogator was.
The man stepped closer. American or not, he was intimidating even with a meter or so between them. As he closed that gap, everything about him seemed bigger, sharper, the shadows deeper and the simmering anger almost visible to the naked eye. His hair was black, a little long around the edges like he’d sidestepped base regulations—were Americans really so undisciplined?—but it seemed neater and more angular now, like it was carved from obsidian. The rest of him was chiseled as well, as if from something grittier and perhaps even harder, and he might have been attractive had he not been the enemy. Had he not been a murderer with Sieg’s razor in hands that should have been red with Sieg’s blood.
And had he not been so close, looming over Hagen now and doing all he could, perhaps even lifting up on the balls of his feet, to stretch that inch of height he had over Hagen.
The interrogator reached for Hagen’s collar, and Hagen couldn’t help flinching away. His fingers itched to grab the gun, unload every bullet into the man’s guts until he bled to death like Sieg had. And then what? Go down in a blaze of glory? The guards would beat him to death or shoot him before he got out of the room.
The thought of death twisted low and painfully in his guts. He would not cry for his brother in front of that man.
The sound of ripping cloth brought him back into the here and now. Cloth giving way under a sharp blade. It sounded like a ripping chute, and Hagen jerked, his body trembling with panic before he’d pushed that aside. Something clicked like a pebble on the ground. A severed button, perhaps?
The man in front of him smiled slightly, like he knew exactly what was going on inside him, and let go of Hagen’s collar. Cool air pressed against his chest, against the newly exposed and vulnerable flesh. Hagen’s hands closed to fists, so, so tempted to punch the bastard, if only he could. If his hands had been in front, he’d have taken that pistol, shot him and then shot himself to save the guards the effort. Escape before they could do to him what—
The razor brushed his chest, and Hagen jerked, and the blade bit in. He hunched his shoulders up and slammed into the asshole. He cursed when the razor dug into his skin, and he stumbled backward, glaring at the man, twisted away from him to protect his exposed chest.
The asshole American calmly stepped forward. Hagen backed away as much as the wall would let him, but the cold stone refused to budge.
The door opened again. “Everything okay in here, sir? We heard—”
“Out.”
One word, and not a moment’s hesitation. The door shut again.
The amusement had left the man’s expression. Now he was angry. Or maybe just irritated. Whatever it was, he wore it coldly and without the slightest hint he might lose control and tear Hagen to shreds.
“Try that again.” He trailed the cool flat of the blade down the center of Hagen’s exposed chest. “See what happens.”
The dare sent ice water through Hagen’s veins. He didn’t move.
The man with Sieg’s razor grinned. Sort of. The corners of his mouth curled upward, but his eyes didn’t change. Still looking right at Hagen, he drew the blade downward to the first unopened button just below Hagen’s breastbone. The blade caught there, held for a second, and the thread snapped. It was a quiet snap, but Hagen somehow thought all the tension in the room would release with it. Instead, it only bore down on him harder.
The hand with the razor inched lower. Warm fingers brushed his abdomen, and every muscle between Hagen’s ribs and hips contracted at once.
That strange grin broadened. The dark eyes narrowed.
Hagen slowly released his breath. Against his will, his mind went back to that moment in the guard shack just before his now captor had realized who he was. Or rather, who he wasn’t. The phantom aftertaste of tobacco and coffee lasted only until the second button pulled tight. Held. Snapped.
Hagen gulped.
“I don’t like seeing my country’s uniform on a fucking Kraut.” The man’s low growl affected Hagen’s senses in weird, inexplicable ways, twisting his stomach with fear while at the same time making the lower part of his uniform tighter. Oblivious, or perhaps just enjoying this, the man went on, “And I’d rather see it cut to ribbons than keeping a German warm.”
Hagen spoke before his mind could catch up and suggest otherwise: “Your country’s uniform? Or your—”
The fist came out of nowhere, and only the wall behind him kept Hagen from going all the way down. His vision flashed red and white, and as it cleared, he blinked his eyes into focus and moved his jaw from side to side, making sure it hadn’t been broken.
“Your hands are tied, and I have the means to make sure even your own mother doesn’t recognize your pathetic body,” the American snarled. “Watch your fucking mouth.”
Hagen tested his jaw one more time and snickered to himself before he faced his captor again with a blank expression. The side of his face throbbed, but the pain kept him focused. Though just why the man wanted to cut the uniform from him rather than simply have him change under threat and at gunpoint was anybody’s guess. Behind his back, he took the chain between his hands, and it felt like the only fixed thing in the universe.
Give me one fixed point and a long enough lever, Archimedes had written, and I’ll unhinge the universe. Or something to that effect. He never could remember the exact wording. All the crazy Greek education of his brother. Greek at school had sparked an interest in codes; nothing had interested Sieg more than languages he couldn’t read. Minoan Linear script. Egyptian hieroglyphs. Enemy intelligence. It still seemed impossible that Sieg, with his codes and schemes and quick academic thinking, should be lying out in the snow somewhere in a shallow ditch.
He forced himself to breathe, deeply, calmly, and not try to strangle the bastard in front of him. Above all, he wouldn’t let him see he was nervous with that blade so close. He glanced down at his chest, only now aware of the wound, the reddish trickle of blood. Really just a nick. He could do this.
He widened his stance, like in hand-to-hand combat training, and forced himself to stoically hold his position while the razor moved even closer. He wasn’t a damned child to be spooked so easily. His brother had died rather than speak. He could do the same.
Another button, and the jacket was little more than a glorified rag. The cold December air had crept into the drafty room and now slipped beneath the torn remains of the stolen uniform.
The American finally broke eye contact, but Hagen had only half a second to find relief in that before a tug at his belt sent more cold panic through him. Panic and . . . and maybe something else. Excitement? Damn, he needed to stop taking those pills and running on minutes of sleep. He was going mad.
The belt went slack about his waist. He prayed to anyone who would listen that the American wouldn’t cut away the trousers, if only because he might nick something vital, not to mention see the one effect Hagen couldn’t hide.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was all a game. Mind games. Fucking with his head to break him down. He’d been warned he’d be mistreated in any numbers of ways if captured, and even if his cock betrayed him, his mind wouldn’t.
Out of nowhere, the American’s hand pressed against Hagen’s cock, cupping it and squeezing hard enough to make Hagen gasp. His eyes flew open, and the American snickered.
“Well.” He squeezed again, this time hard enough to hurt. “I guess I know something about you now too.”
Hagen’s face went hot, and he gritted his teeth against the pain that was nevertheless laced with pleasure, despite his best efforts. He half expected the man to punch him, hit him right th
ere, knee him and kick him when he was down. And half expected him to caress him. It tightened every muscle in his body with anticipation and dread, a mix like gasoline and fire.
But it was a threat. If the guards knew about him—hell, if anybody knew about him, the Americans, or his own side . . . he blew out a breath. “That scared you, didn’t it? That they might believe me?”
The razor came up and flashed in the light for a brief moment, enough to make him jerk in reflex. He glanced at the door. Surely the American wouldn’t rape him? It had been known to happen, though Hagen had never in a million years expected to be faced with it. But standing here, barely dressed in this cold cellar, he couldn’t convince himself it wasn’t a possibility now.
“Can I put on my own jacket, sir?”
Well, he could try.
The American sneered at him, his expression tangled somewhere between amused and dangerous. Then he gestured at the pile of clothes and took a step back. “Get dressed.”
Hagen rattled the chain behind his back. “These might—”
“You can handle it.” Definitely amused now. “Though tying your boots might be a challenge.” He pulled up one of the chairs and turned it around. Straddling the back, he rested his forearms on the top, loosely cradling Sieg’s razor between his fingers. “Go on.” A nod toward the clothes. “Get dressed.”
Hagen shifted his weight. It was bad enough that the belt was no longer helping to hold the papers in place. He glanced at the clothes. The ragged uniform he was barely wearing. The American again. The American who may as well have been drinking a beer or eating an apple for as relaxed as he looked, watching Hagen twist an impossible task around in his mind.
And watching him. A man who obviously noticed other men that way, and he was watching Hagen.
Hagen swallowed his nerves and started on the jacket. One more problem: the sleeves.
“Need a hand?” the American singsonged.
Fury and embarrassment heated Hagen’s cheeks, but it was either give in now or spend more time shivering in the cold and exposed to his captor. The American stood. Hagen kept his back toward the wall, though he didn’t dare make any large or sudden moves. He held his breath as the American grabbed one side of the ruined jacket, slipped the blade between it and Hagen’s skin—making sure, it seemed, to touch Hagen’s bare flesh as much as he could with his own warm hand—and pulled. Seams and heavy cloth ripped, and when the American let go, the remnants hung uselessly off Hagen’s shoulder and arm. He did the same to the other side, and without a word, returned to his chair while Hagen shrugged off what was left of the jacket.