The chandelier in the hotel lobby sparkled like the overhead lights of a stage. The warm light they gave off shined against the leather coats of the Gestapo officers dragging James and Newkirk out onto the street. Fresh snow fell as the two captives were pushed into the back of a car by gun point. The car booked it down the street to the nearest Gestapo headquarters. While the motor roared in protest to the sudden speed, all James could hear was his breathing. That heavy, chest-compressed breathing.

The front of the Gestapo office sported a large Nazi flag and two guards by the door. James and Newkirk were shoved from the car and led up the stone steps. The guards opened the door for them before they were escorted to a back room. The room was made of cement and had only a table, a single chair, and the barest of lighting. The highest-ranking officer was the last to enter. In his hands he held Newkirk's brief case and James' trench coat parcel. He slammed both on the table before walking round to the other side and sitting down in the chair. Guards stood on either side of the man and two more stood on either side of the prisoners.

"Lutz Strub. 22-years-old. Wounded in action. Lost both his eyes," the officer read from one of James' forged papers. The man flecked his eyes at James as he crumpled the paper in his gloved hand. "Clearly a lie."

James' entire body trembled like jelly. There had been no discussion about if the Gestapo caught him what he was supposed to say. Thankfully, Newkirk had a quick tongue, "The doctor exaggerated a little in the papers. His eyes were damaged in the war."

The officer snapped his attention to Newkirk and threw the crumpled paper at him. "There is no record of a Lutz Strub having even been in the military," the officer told the soldier. "The most we found on a Lutz Strub was an eighty-year-old baker."

Newkirk chewed his lip. Fast talk wouldn't cut it here.

The officer's eyes shifted between the two before snapping his fingers. The gloved hand made a soft squeak sound which signaled one of the guards to step forward. From his breast pocket he pulled out a folded-up piece of paper. To James' horror, he saw his face slowly be smoothed out of the wrinkles. It was a wanted poster depicting a similar face to James', his name, and the serial number branded into his arm.

His knees buckled before the officer could even say anything to him. Newkirk sprung to help, but the guard to his side grabbed his shoulders and stopped him. The other "helped" James by forcing him to stand. The officer at the table had a terrible smirk on his face. "James Foster, the escaped criminal who has almost every Gestapo officer in Germany looking for him. You're a long way from Hammelburg," the officer commented. James said nothing in reply. "We got a call this morning that maybe the escaped prisoner was with someone and had bandages over his eyes. You can imagine our surprise when a drunken draft board worker comes into our office giving a vaguely similar description."

James cursed inside his head. If he hadn't been so stupid, they would probably be learning simple Dutch by now. This was his fault. Newkirk would be met with a firing squad because of him.

"That's a load of bull," Newkirk suddenly said. The Brit had his jaw set and his fist were clenched in front of him. "Everybody looks a little similar to you guys when the heat is on. Sure, he may have lied about being a soldier, but that doesn't make him your escaped criminal."

The boy thought he felt his heart skip a beat before the officer countered, "We have ways of making sure this is the right man. Lift up his sleeve."

The guard that had picked James up now grabbed him to hold him still. The boy shook his head as the other officer grabbed his wrist and pulled up his sleeve. Newkirk tried to get in between the two, but the guard shoved him away. The Brit fell to the floor as the thick, black brand was exposed to the officer at the table.

James began to scream at the guards. The one that had lifted up his sleeve backed away as the boy thrashed in his grip. Amid the hysteria, the officer said, "Major Klaus and Captain Marx will be connected shortly. They'll be here by morning. Take him away somewhere." The officer waved his hand to dismiss the guard struggling to hold James. The boy was still thrashing and trying to get away from it all.

This wasn't supposed to happen. The plan seemed fool proof. Hogan had assured him he'd be taken to England. Now all he wanted to do was hide behind Newkirk and let this all dissolve away like the other hallucinations. He'd open his eyes and hear his own breathing before realizing he had stained another one of Newkirk's shirts. He told himself this even as the heavy steel door closed and his screams bounced off the ceiling.