31

“>Mein Gott.”

Stanislaw backed away from the car. His leg collapsed beneath him, but he managed to stay upright.

Corey felt frozen in place, holding Hitler’s glare. In the years since 1908 those eyes had lost any softness and doubt. They had hardened into an evil bloodlessness, sucking in the light around them. His face had sagged into crevices like stone. Corey knew that if he blinked even once, if he allowed even a morsel of fear, this man would reach into him and yank out his soul.

In that moment Corey knew Hitler’s evil genius. In one statement Hitler had tried to own him. He’d said I know you. I am not shocked you are here. Not even time travel is more powerful than I am. All of that in four words:

You have not aged.

“Well,” Corey said, “you have.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Corey saw movement farther down the road. In the distance, a line of cars approached with lights out. As they came near, Corey could make out the image of a white-and-black figure. A swastika.

The convoy. The disguised Allies.

Hitler broke Corey’s glance and turned toward the cars, too. He muttered one word softly to the others, and both doors of the Mercedes flew open.

As two soldiers jumped out, Stanislaw pulled out his gun. “Zurück, Corey!” his great-uncle screamed. “Get back!”

Corey jumped into the ditch, tumbling to the snowy ground. For the first time since they’d left the hut, he felt the pain of the back injury from Vienna.

Stanislaw let off two shots. One of the Nazi soldiers howled in pain, dropping his rifle and falling to the ground. Crouching behind the vehicle, the other soldier took a potshot at Stanislaw that went way over his head.

Hitler’s window rolled up, and Stanislaw shot again. The bullet cracked the Führer’s window but bounced off. “Bulletproof glass,” Corey said. He had no clue it had been invented yet.

As Stanislaw blasted the windshield of the Mercedes into fragments, Hitler let out a frightened squeal in the back seat. Now the convoy was moving closer. For a moment Corey’s heart lifted. With so many Allies disguised as Nazis, the Mercedes didn’t stand a chance. And neither did Hitler.

A distant shot rang out from one of the cars, then another. Corey could see the third shot slicing through the air in front of his eyes. All of them flew way over the top of the Mercedes. Now the driver was screaming something into a walkie-talkie in German, and an answer crackled over the line.

The convoy picked up speed. More shots flew, but none of them seemed aimed at the Mercedes. And the soldier was gesturing toward Corey and Stanislaw.

They were following his instructions.

“They are Nazis!” Corey shouted.

“Aaaagh!” Stanislaw shrieked, as a bullet hit him in the arm.

As the big guy collapsed, Corey ran toward him. He crouched as low as he could. Behind him, one of the soldiers in the Mercedes was frantically opening the car’s trunk. It was loaded with explosives.

“They must be ambushing the town,” Corey said.

“That is what they think,” Stanislaw said, struggling to his knees.

Now the remaining soldier was reaching into the back seat to pull Hitler to safety. “The coward,” Stanislaw muttered. “He lets everyone else do the fighting for him.”

Stanislaw fired at the soldier, the shot grazing his arm. As he fell away, an explosive flew over Corey’s head from the convoy. It hit the ground, sending up a spray of dirt. In the back seat of the Mercedes, Hitler was screaming. Corey dived into the door, slamming it shut. He crawled his way to the back of the Mercedes, to the open trunk. The only thing he even vaguely recognized was a hand grenade. He’d seen those on TV. Crouching, he snatched one from the trunk, pulled the pin, and tossed it toward the caravan.

It exploded on the road, digging a violent-looking pothole.

As Corey spun around, a bullet whizzed over his shoulder, directly between him and Stanislaw. He leaped to the ground in the other direction and rolled away. He was on the other side of the car now. There, the first soldier Stanislaw had shot was flat on his face, not moving.

“Stanislaw?” Corey called out.

“Pass auf, Corey!” his great-uncle called from the other side.

“What does that mean?” Corey replied.

His only answer was a click, directly above him. “It means,” said a voice in a thick German accent, “watch out.”

Corey turned, looking up into the barrel of a pistol.