It was deliciously dark that night. He snuck along the outskirts of the encampment, easily avoiding the stupid guards. Allied or German, it didn't matter—they were all alike, easy to outwit. He hesitated before the tents, wondering which one his target was in. There were four—small and narrow, obviously meant for only one person each. So the target would be alone. Excellent.
But which tent to enter?
He checked the moon—a thin silver slice, hidden by clouds. Light enough for him to see. Not for anyone else. It was nearing the horizon, almost set—but he had enough time to peruse his options. Perhaps he would be lucky and immediately find the right tent. He entered the first one, on the far left, delicately slipping in beneath the closed canvas flap. He paused, letting his eyes adjust. It didn't take long.
He and the darkness were very well-acquainted.
Guided by the soft, slow sound of breathing, he crept over the soft sand of the floor, his supple leather boots making no noise. He'd taken them from a dead German soldier and they were serving him well. But when he leaned over the cot, the man asleep on it was the wrong one. Rugged features, brown hair tinged silver from the slip of moonlight that had entered through the flap.
The sergeant. Not his target.
He left, skulking along the shadows to the next tent, easing beneath the flap, leaning hopefully over the cot. His eyes caught a tousled head of strawberry-blond hair. Not this one either.
He was growing frustrated. Patience, he reminded himself, slipping toward the next tent. Surely he will be in this one. If not, all you have left is one tent. And there is nowhere for him to hide in such a small camp as this.
But the moon was setting now, nearly gone. The sun would be rising soon. And the Allies weren't known for sleeping the day away.
He entered the next tent. Right away he saw a flash of blond hair, a square jaw—this wasn't him either. He was in the last tent, then.
He repressed a frustrated sigh. If only he'd decided to try that one first—he was wasting too much time here. He turned to go. But something went wrong—his foot slipped, crunched in the silty sand, or he breathed too loud, moved too fast—
The young man on the cot woke up. Bright blue eyes snapped open, dragged into focus, looked directly at him. He froze, stared into that startlingly bright gaze. He had no choice.
Diamond pulled out his Luger.