The afternoon sun bathed the entrance of the Küsnacht Private Club in a warm amber hue. Across the still lake, the reflection of distant mountains shimmered faintly beneath the golden light.
Shane stood on the front steps, a faint breeze tugging at the hem of his dark coat. From his inner pocket, he withdrew a thick bundle of Swiss francs neatly wrapped in kraft paper and handed it to Mikhail.
"Take this—for the road," he said quietly, pressing his thumb against the edge of the notes as though confirming the solidity of a promise. "And look after them well."
Mikhail accepted the money. The rough texture of the paper against his palm felt oddly grounding. His fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary, not out of greed, but from an unspoken hesitation—a quiet acknowledgment of trust.
He meant to thank Shane, yet the words caught in his throat. Instead, he nodded once and tucked the envelope into his coat.
Back when the East Coast United Storage and Shipping Company first began its ventures, Mikhail's world had been simple: survival. Those who lived in shadow had no dreams of redemption—only the next hiding place, the next forged paper, the next bribe.
But following Shane had changed that.
This seventeen-year-old Irishman, had an uncanny ability to remember everyone's name, to sense their fears and needs, and to plan three steps ahead of every danger.
For the first time, Mikhail felt what it meant to follow someone not out of necessity, but faith. He didn't know words like "loyalty" or "duty," but he understood one truth: when a man protects you like family, walking through fire ceases to be a gamble—it becomes a choice.
The weight of the francs in his pocket no longer represented payment. It was reassurance.
The hardened veteran of the Eastern Front lowered his head slightly. "Take care, Sir," he said gruffly. "See you in New York."
Shane smiled faintly, resting a hand on Mikhail's shoulder. "And make sure they get there in one piece."
He stooped to pick up a parcel wrapped in brown paper, untying the string with delicate precision. Inside gleamed several Swiss Army knives, their polished blades catching the light.
"This one with the saw's for you," he said, handing one to Mikhail. "And this—with the magnifier—for the Doctor."
Each knife had a ribbon tied to it—a small detail, colour-coded so no one's would be mistaken.
Finally, he produced a small tin of Lindt milk chocolates, pressing a finger on the corner to check the seal. "For the journey," he added, with a faint, almost brotherly smile.
"Don't stay in the hospital flat Dr. Grayson arranged," Shane continued, his tone shifting to quiet authority. "Go to the Black Cat Inn—Saint-Germain district. The owner owes Marcus a favour."
He pulled a folded note from his coat, a black paw print stamped neatly in one corner. "Show him this code. He'll give you a room facing the hospital."
Mikhail nodded. He understood. Hospitals drew attention. Inns with discreet owners and no records kept you alive.
The truck door was open, sunlight glinting off the steel interior. Jay lay on the stretcher, his breathing shallow, the white bandage around his collarbone faintly stained red. Though pale, his eyes were lucid—determined not to close them yet.
Olki sat nearby, flipping a coin through the air. The silver disc caught the light as it spun before landing in his palm, again and again—a ritual born from soldiers' boredom and nerves.
In the corner sat Dr. Reinhardt Krause, holding an old black-and-white photograph. The image showed a fair-haired woman beside a young boy before the Statue of Liberty—both smiling beneath the July sun.
At the bottom, faded handwriting read: "To Mum and Dad, with love—Anna and Thomas, 1926.7.19."
Krause's fingers traced the words slowly. Since his wife's death, his only wish had been to see his daughter and grandson again in New York. The photograph trembled faintly in his hand as if time itself were fragile.
Silence filled the compartment, broken only by the hum of the idling engine and the soft metallic click of Olki's coin.
A large Swiss man stepped forward from the club veranda—broad-shouldered, with a faint Iron Cross tattoo at the web of his thumb.
"This is Hans," said Marcus Hofmann, emerging behind him. "He's one of ours. Eight years driving for Ciba Chemical—knows every back road between Basel and Belfort."
He turned to Shane. "During Verdun, he drove munitions convoys twelve times under artillery fire."
Hans nodded once, his scarred neck catching the light as he climbed into the driver's seat. His movements were unhurried but exact. When Mikhail joined him, their eyes met briefly in the mirror—two soldiers who didn't need to speak to understand each other.
The engine started, coughing once before settling into a steady rumble.
Mikhail leaned out the open window. "Sir—when will you be leaving?"
Shane stood beneath the shadow of the porch, hands in his coat pockets. The late sun stretched his silhouette across the gravel. "Tomorrow, most likely," he said, his voice calm and low beneath the engine's hum.
"Take care on the road."
The truck rolled forward, its tyres crunching softly on the gravel. The sound faded down the winding path lined with birch trees until only the whisper of leaves remained.
From the doorway, Marcus appeared carrying two glasses of Steinheger whiskey. He handed one to Shane. "You're still going to Bern this afternoon?"
Shane's eyes lingered on the empty road before taking the glass. The ice clicked gently as he swirled it. "Tomorrow's soon enough," he said. "Tonight, I'd rather talk about Berlin's stock market—and our new company."
Marcus chuckled quietly. "You never rest, do you?"
Shane tilted his glass slightly, the light reflecting in the amber liquor. "Rest is for those who've arrived," he said. "I'm still on the way."