It takes a sniper to track a sniper.

That was what many over-glorified war stories made it out to be, veterans ominously giving the warning as they reflected back on the Eastern Front. The romanticized one-on-one, the western showdown, gentleman's duel. Really, it was hardly that complicated. Chances are he was always nearby, especially in a city like Dijon; too many variables to play with. Boyan himself acted tethered, so he didn't trust in the omnipotence of this sniper, confining himself to the same three blocks. Chances were high that he didn't know where Väinämöinen was any more than they did.

"I am not your bait," Sophia huffed, arms crossed under her heavy bust. For being a spy, she sure did attract a lot of attention, but that was probably why she was so good at her job. By attracting too much attention, people made a point to ignore her.

"Bait wasn't what I was going for," Gilbert sighed. They had sixteen hours before Sophia was on the next train back to Poland. "Just break his routine a little."

"You're asking me to get his attention well enough for him to willingly risk leaving his sense of security. That sounds like Bait."

"You're on this mission because he wouldn't recognize you in the case you ran into each other." Her silence affirmed his assumption. "Just a block or two farther, a bar or something, I need to see if Väinämöinen moves. Hunkered down, a sniper is almost impossible to find unless he opens fire so we have to see if he moves."

"And what if he shoots at me? A stranger taking such an interest in a wanted man is suspicious."

"Don't make it your idea."

Her top lip pulled up in something between disgust and amusement as she glared through half-lidded blue eyes, "You men."

"There you go," Gilbert grinned, "we love that shit."

Boyan wasn't an idiot. A traitor, perhaps. A coward, most definitely. So when the Captain had informed him he would be extracted to France, he knew it wasn't really a means of protection. He knew little, barely anything, about the Rebel high command; most of the information they got was grunt talk, rumours at best and entirely unfounded. However that was information he kept to himself, self reservation was his primary motive, and it seemed to have worked so far. And thus he stood in the middle of a classy German neighbourhood in occupied France with one of the best Finnish snipers as a personal bodyguard, a guardian angel of sorts.

He was bait, not that he particularly cared, so long as he could live comfortably. The General wasn't known for his reach outside of the Ghettos, that was where his influence thrived. And still he never felt safe. How long until the Nazis gave up and told Väinämöinen to shoot him when he least expected it.

"Fucking Carlos," he grumbled to himself, rubbing his knuckles unconsciously. If that idiot had just laid low and followed the plan, this wouldn't have happened, but no. Idiot had to build a fucking conscious and get scared. He messed up and the eyes saw him, probably all of them.

There had been a theory that the General wasn't just one person, but a series of people who blended in with the foot soldiers, but he had never really believed that one. It made him less nervous to think that there was a hierarchy, that the General sat somewhere in the distance and he had some semblance of autonomy in the organization. Rather, he believed that the General comprised of only two people, which made the most sense. Laurinaitis seemed soft-spoken, eloquent and gentle, juxtaposed by the deadly and harshly short-spoken Arlovskaya. The two of them together was a deadly combination that he believed they named General Winter to throw others off their scent.

Unfortunately he had never seen either of them himself, so those were only more rumors. Once they realized how useless his information was, his bodyguard would quickly become his executioner.

So when he caught the eye of that pretty woman browsing the shop windows of the over-priced bakery, he let his gaze linger shamelessly. She scoffed, turning away from him and walking away, but not too quickly. So he followed, because why the hell not?

He was dead anyway.

It really wasn't his intention to get her killed, it wouldn't look good for their relationship. Especially since this was his plan, she was only involved because of him, so finding the Finn before he wised up to them was top priority. The itching want of nicotine wasn't helping however, and he found himself becoming increasingly impatient.

"Come on you chubby-faced bastard," Gilbert grumbled through his teeth as he whittled down his thumbnail, "Fuckin' move ."

The evening sun cast long shadows, but still enough light that the streets were fairly busy, from his peripherals he could see children and teens crossing back and forth on the street Sophia and the target had disappeared down; most in their Patriot Youth attire; pretending to be such good little soldiers.

After the assassination of Hitler by his own high command, a few things changed; mostly names. A faint movement in one building absorbed him, his every fibre hanging on the motion. The lights in the apartment were off, despite the sun being low enough to warrant a lamp. No, this was someone who relied on the natural light and the changes in it. Artificial light could bounce off the gun, hit the scope just the wrong way, and give away a position. He had to maneuver the apartment to keep track of his target, chances were he had more than just that floor as well.

"Finally."

He was tired.

Not particularly of any fault of his own, but merely following the giant silhouette as he slowly moved about the room for what had to be the hundredth time was draining. At the same time he felt restless, the taller man's anxiety casting a shadow over him and making sleep impossible, though he was supposed to be watching the security cameras monitoring Boyan's neighbourhood. The idiot had wandered out of it, but the sniper still maintained a visual, so he didn't see why the fuss.

"Oi."

Berwald ignored him, or most likely just didn't hear. He wasn't the sort to purposely tune someone out. He had settled himself back by the security screens, watching them with a neutral expression, but his eyes moved just a little too quickly to be considered calm.

"Oi."

He kept getting drawn to camera three, but there was nothing in the alley, it was the only other entrance besides the front door, and what idiot would even try that? Of course he couldn't see anything on any of the other cameras either. There were small, basically insignificant blind spots on ground level that vanished the closer anyone got to Boyan's residence, but it wasn't Boyan the Swede would be thinking about.

"Oi!" the blond didn't so much startle as he blankly turned to look at the Dane sprawled across the couch. "I don't think I gotta say much to tell ya you're being too obvious."

Berwald wasn't the most expressive, so perhaps it was only obvious to him, not that Abel would care either. Only the Commander would give a shit; or maybe not. He wasn't stupid, chances were that he knew all their hamartia, but that didn't mean they were accepted , simply that he felt their abilities were more useful despite them. Mikkel sat up, feet still pulled up onto the cushion with no regard for the expensive upholstery, "He'll be fine."

". . . G't a b'd feel'n."

"Do all gays have a sixth sense, or is it more a Swede thing?" The look he received wasn't much different than the stoic gaze from before, but it felt much more threatening, however that didn't stop the other man from cackling. "Come on, lighten up."

"Berwald," the third voice interrupted, drawing both scandinavians toward the door as Abel stepped into the room, predictably uninterested in the conversation, "It's gonna cost ya ninety-seven Deutschmarks if you wanna kill him."

"That is both a weirdly specific and insultingly low price," Mikkel deadpanned, looking more than annoyed at the pricetag his life had earned.

"Every time you open your mouth, it drops."

"Asshole."

The silence didn't last long.

"Where's the boss?"

Abel leaned against the wall, his hand instinctively finding the grip of his pistol in the shoulder holster, more out of habit than any real sense of danger. "He had a blind-date. Someone from the Hemlock Project."

Mikkel made a face at the name, "I thought they were shafted when the treaty was signed." The Dutchman shrugged, not expanding further on the topic, mostly because he wasn't qualified to. He hardly knew more than the other two men in the room, leaving Mikkel to sigh in frustration before turning back to his original target. "Anything new buddy?"

Berwald had switched the cameras to the interior view for them both, monitoring the hallways and elevators. Boyan's apartment had been thoroughly bugged, cameras everywhere, even the bathrooms The nest had been given more space as requested by the White Death, the last camera being just outside the door.

"N'th'ng."