Dieter Schwarz
Dieter stood in the shiny commercial kitchen of Wulfram’s house, drinking coffee, while Wulfram saw Reagan Stone to a car to drive her to class at the university. Hans had drawn chauffeur and bodyguard duty today, which served him right for holding down Shloss Southwestern while Dieter and most of the rest of the Welfenlegion had been on duty twenty-four and seven over in Europe. Hans looked particularly chipper and well-rested, the bastard. No one had asked him to dodge a bullet twice in the past few days. The stitched-up crease on Dieter’s triceps still throbbed.
He had worn his sharpest black suit to talk with Wulfram. His starched collar scratched the back of his neck as he rehearsed his apology and the assurances gained from Luca Wyss only a few hours ago that Valencia and Pajari were safe if not unharmed.
The door to the garage thumped closed behind Hans and Rae Stone. With that, Dieter and Wulfram were alone in the kitchen.
Wulfram turned and strutted toward the door to the living room, a small smile disrupting his usually inscrutable expression with an odd lightness.
Dieter cleared his throat. “Herr von Hannover.”
Wulfram stopped and looked at him. His smile was already gone, and he again looked like the cold monarch and sniper that he was.
Damn, but Dieter was going to miss him. Their friendship was over a decade in the making and intense in the way that only mutual mortal risk and military camaraderie could forge.
Wulfram asked, “Yes, Schwarz?”
Dieter removed an envelope from his suit pocket. Speaking Alemannic, the Swiss dialect that they spoke together, he said, “I should like to submit my resignation, Herr von Hannover.”
Wulfram glanced at the envelope in Dieter’s hand and the blank expression that Dieter maintained on his face.
Dieter would have predicted that Wulfram would react with cold anger at evidence of such an absolute betrayal. Dieter would have.
Instead, Wulfram’s lips parted, and his breath caught in his chest. “Dieter, what have you done?”