Hello lovely people! I'm quite proud of this chapter, took me a lot of re-writes to get it right!

so ENJOY! (p.s. if any of my translations are wrong I apologise)


Argentina, Villa Castrol

1962

"So, what's the vibe we're going for?" I asked as we walked, arm in arm, down the grassy hill towards the Villa, which was situated on the idyllic edge of a turquoise lake with the stunning grey, white topped mountains of the Andes reflected on its smooth surface.

"No vibe, you're going to sit in the bar while I search the rest of the hotel for Shaw," Erik said bluntly.

I stopped in my tracks, and whipped my arm from his, "What? You want me to be the passive female and stay in the bar? If anyone goes looking for him it should be me! I'm the one with the training, I'm the one-"

"No," he said his tone softer, "Please," he placed the hand not holding his jacket, on my shoulder and squeezed, "Please - for me? - stay in the bar."

I glowered at him but I could still feel the guilt trickling from his thoughts, all he wanted was for me to be safe, I welcomed the sentiment but I could look after myself.

"Fine," I gave into his pleading expression, "But I'm keeping an open channel," I said tapping the side of my head so he knew what I meant.


I opened the impressive wooden door and stepped into the Argentinean bar. I slipped down my cream headscarf and slipped up my sunglass, popping them on my head to hold back my hair, as I examined the humid place.

The sun was low in the sky so an orangey glow hung in the air and reflected off the varnished wood of the many empty tables and chairs. The bar was at the fair end, simple with eight leather seated barstools. Three men were there, the barman who had glanced up when I walked in then continued to clean his glass, and two guys sat together at a table in the middle of the empty tavern; they however did not acknowledge my entrance.

My heels clacked on the wooden floor as I walked up to the bar and but I could now feel the thoughts and eyes of the two men on me. I closed my eyes for a moment –

- Erik was walking down an empty corridor, opening the doors as he went -

"Una vaso de vino blanco y una cerveza, por favor," A glass of white wine and a beer, please, I asked the barman in Spanish.

He nodded and as he readied my drinks out of boredom I surveyed the walls, but stopped on the one to my right, I had found a picture of three men on a yacht called the C'est La Vie. I squinted and then immediately recoiled. Schmidt was the man in the middle, with that familiar sadistic smile that sent an unwelcome shiver up my spine on his face and a glass of champagne raised in a toast - he looked exactly how I remembered and not a day older – and he was flanked by the only other customers in this bar; the two men who sat behind me.

There was the sound of two full glasses on wood beside me as the barman gave me my drinks, "Gracias," I muttered as I stared at the picture, then prying my eyes from it I picked up my wine glass and took a sip. It tasted familiar.

"Mosel . . . Vino alemán?" German wine? I asked the barman, but it was not he who answered.

"Yes, why would we have anything else?" came the cheerful German reply from behind me.

I turned around and found that the two men, in the picture with Shaw, were looking at me. Each with the same brand beer as the one I had just purchased, one wore a tailored suit but no jacket, while the other wore what you would usually expect from a holiday goer, a yellow t-shirt and brown trousers.

They were friends of Shaw's, old Nazi acquaintances; if Erik can't find Shaw, they would know where he is. So, smiling eloquently, I opened my mind to Erik – so he could see what I could and hear my thoughts - and turned by back to the barman and rested my elbows on the bar.

I raised my wine glass in agreement; they copied my toast, "Very valid point, gentlemen, there is nothing like a German fermented wine," I said, smiling as I took a sip along with them, "Do you mind if I join you?" I asked, indicating innocently to the seat opposite them.

"Not at all," exclaimed the weedy looking man in the suit as he waved me over.

They stood up, graciously, and held out their hands, I placed the beer on the table and took the suit first, "Abe, tailor," – that explained the suit - then the t-shirt, "Frank, pig farmer," – that explained the t-shirt.

"Evelyn, and I'm not telling," I introduced myself with a mischievous wink and then sat down, crossing my legs, "Do I detect a Düsseldorfian twinge, gentlemen?" I asked curiously, taking another sip of wine.

"Yes, indeed you do," said the t-shirt, "And what would a beautiful Berlin girl like yourself be doing, alone, in a place like this where the old men come to holiday?"

I smiled courteously at his compliment - even though it repulsed me – and nodded in praise of his brilliant regional accent knowledge, but before I could answer:

"What makes you think she's alone?"

Erik had walked into the bar, having been unable to find Shaw and on having seen my thoughts, he had decided to take his chances with these two men as I had.

I took his distraction as an opportunity to read the t-shirt's thoughts.

Ah, they're a couple. He's German too, no doubt; they're the right age to have parents in the war . . . possibly someone we knew?

Images of the tailor and himself dressed in SS uniforms, surrounded by other men in the same attire swirled around in his thoughts; confirming that they were Nazi's, then Schmidt's smiling face and the toast on the large yacht.

I exited and saw that Erik was smiling amiably as he walked over to us after hanging up his cream jacket and hat. I resumed my act and smiled affectionately back, sliding his beer to him as he sat down beside me.

I projected what I had just seen in the t-shirts thoughts to Erik as I introduced the two men, "Abe here is a tailor," the weedy man raised his glass in welcome, "And Frank is a pig farmer," Erik raised his glass genially to the two men, no indication at all of what I had just shown him, "They're from Düsseldorf," I said in a tone which suggested surprise.

Erik raised his eyebrows, "Ah, small world," he mimicked my put-on surprise, "My parents came from Düsseldorf," he took a sip of his beer.

"Really? What was their name?" the pig farmer asked, genuinely interested and not at all aware of our hidden agenda.

There was a sudden pause, "Now here's the funny thing," Erik began, frowning in confusion as he moved to the edge of his seat and placed his glass on the table but kept his hand wrapped around it, "You see, my parents didn't have a name, it was taken from them," he looked down at the arm which held his beer glass and we all watched as he twisted it slowly around to reveal the tattooed numbers 407128, "By pig farmers . . . and tailors,"

Immediately the two men stiffened; fear suddenly darkening their thoughts. I looked to Erik, but I felt a surge of hatred obscure his thoughts. The tension in the room heightened and the barman noticed; I heard him decide to reach for his hand gun. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

Erik seemed oblivious to our fear as he lifted his glass to his lips and the men followed. I stayed still, watching the two men for any sudden movements. All three of them began to down their drinks, each looking intensely at me and Erik as he slowly drank. I felt the tension rise as Erik's body tightened and his thoughts seeped murder. I looked franticly from him to the men and back again.

Erik. No.

He ignored my request as he placed down his near empty glass, a little mouthful was left at the bottom; the Germans imitated placing their hardly touched pints back on the table. My heart pace quickened. Then I instinctively reacted as I heard the farmer's thoughts.

In a flash he pulled out a knife and raised it to Erik, but I was too quick. I whipped the knife from his raised hand and suspended it in mid-air, where it hung only for a moment before Erik grabbed it and plunged it into the man's arm, pinning him to the table. In that same moment the farmer yelled in pain, the tailor stood up and the barman cocked his gun, aiming it for Erik's head.

I looked earnestly at Erik's steely expression – willing him to stop - but he wasn't looking at me, his eyes were focused on the tailor. Then I heard a groan from the barman. I looked around. His gun was no longer pointed at Erik; he was fighting against it as Erik moved the metal barrel slowly to a stop, pointed at the tailor.

The man was terrified, I could feel it.

Erik!

"No," I breathed, pleading again.

"We were following orders-!" the tailor cried but his plea - as mine had - went unheard, and as the trigger was pulled I flinched in pain as the tailors thoughts went suddenly silent and he fell limply to the floor.

Then before I could stop him, Erik yanked the knife from the pig farmer's arm and pitched it to his left; right at the barman. It hit him squarely in the chest and before he even impacted with the floor, Erik summoned the knife back into his hand.

I tried to stand up but I suddenly felt something immense tug at my midriff, it violently winded me and I was forced back down. I looked down, I was wearing a belt around my waist which had a metal buckle; it was Erik.

"Erik, please," I stammered, gasping for air as I fought the excruciating pain issuing from my diaphragm, You're better than this! . . . Don't stoop to their level, Erik! Please! I forced the agonizing pain to the back of my mind and tried to stand again, but he pressed me back down, Erik!

I watched him with wide eyes; breathing in shallow, pained, uneven breaths, unable to do anything as he kept me restrained to the chair and examined the knife. It was an SS knife.

"Blood and honour?" Erik muttered, disgusted, as he read what was engraved on its shiny metal edge.

Then he violently jammed the knife back into the farmers arm and I felt as well as heard his cry of agony– my defences were down as I fought against the excruciating pain in my abdomen from the result of being winded.

"What the hell are you?" the farmer exclaimed through pained breaths as Erik leant back and casually downed the rest of his drink.

He set the empty glass on the table, "Let's just say I'm Frankenstein's monster," he looked to his right and found the picture of Shaw I had seen earlier. He stood up and walked over to it, "And I'm looking for my creator-" he muttered, glaring at it.

Then in one fluid movement, he twisted around and bid the dead barman's gun into his hand then aimed it at the petrified man he had trapped - with the his own knife - to the wooden table.

Erik hesitated, but his expression was of cast-iron hatred. I suddenly stopped struggling.

Erik . . . No . . .

I closed my eyes and flinched as the single shot rang through the air.