Chapter Two

"And I can fight only for something that I love, love only what I respect, and respect only what I at least know."—Adolf Hitler

Two Hours Later

"Report."

Features wreathed in a halo of tobacco smoke, Integra Fairbrook Windgates Hellsing surveyed her subordinates with her customary haughty expression. "You're late; I expected you half an hour ago."

Seras spoke up—which was rather fortunate, since Heinkel had no intention of explaining the reason for their tardiness. "I'm sorry, Sir. The interrogation...took longer than expected."

Despite her injury, Heinkel couldn't resist a smirk. That's one way to put it. When Integra's gaze moved to her, though, she quickly schooled her features into a neutral mask.

"And?" Integra barked, her patience clearly exhausted.

Heinkel had never been one for diplomacy herself, but it was only with great effort that she abstained from rolling her eyes at the other woman's lack of decorum; the Protestant's testiness put even the Archbishop's tempers to shame.

Flicking a glance at Heinkel—which the former Vatican agent ignored—Seras admitted, "All we know is that the surviving members of Millennium boarded a cargo ship bound for Buenos Aires yesterday."

Now Heinkel did roll her eyes. We might have learned more, if you weren't so soft.

Though she was well aware of Seras' idiocy, Heinkel had still been surprised when the draculina objected to her interrogation methods. After all, they were quite effective; and besides, what kind of vampire was squeamish at the sight of blood? As it was, the damage she'd inflicted was minimal—compared to what she wanted to do, anyway—and over Seras' strenuous protests.

Integra scowled, the hand holding the cigar clenching it so tightly that it almost snapped in half. "I told those idiots to close the waterfront!"

Strange that Millennium had chosen to flee by boat when the trip would be much faster—and less risky—by plane. But then again, Heinkel had never witnessed the Nazis using modern aircraft; perhaps they didn't trust it. The memory of the zeppelins darkening the London skyline tightened around her chest like an iron band.

Somewhere off the coast of Argentina

Hans stood at the railing, wind numbing his face and spray soaking his clothing, snatches of the others' conversation interspersed with the waves crashing against the boat. Nothing he hadn't heard before: Herr Doctor raving about his experiments restoring the Reich, Van Winkle humming an opera tune, Schrodinger annoying everyone with his endless supply of trivial remarks.

How could they feel anything but despair at the devastating defeat they'd suffered? Then again, how could he? Even now, Hans anticipated the day they would destroy any and everything in their path: a glorious slaughter to cleanse this worthless world. But with their Fuhrer dead, how could they fulfill his mission?

Lost in thought, he flinched at the sound of approaching footsteps. Schrodinger.

Hans stiffened, expecting more aimless chatter, but the boy was uncharacteristically silent. Finally, he asked, "Can I join you?" Odd; Millennium's youngest—and cockiest—lieutenant never asked permission for anything.

When Hans nodded, the boy crossed the deck to stand beside him; gazing at the black waters below, he whispered, "What now?"

His bravado gone, Schrodinger seemed impossibly young, a boy playing at war. But he, too, was a soldier, his hands as blood stained as the rest. Still, Hans wanted to comfort the boy, but he didn't know how; and anyway, the Major wouldn't have approved.

They waited, but the answer never came.