Grimwolf: Shadows of 1930

C-1930. A Murder in London

Alicia walked uneasily through the streets of London. The fog was a dense, impenetrable, hostile wall, like some lurking spectre clinging to the pavement. It drifted low over the ground, swallowing street corners and dimming the gas lamps that struggled to pierce the night with their faint yellow glow. The damp cobblestones glistened weakly beneath the flickering lamplight, reflecting what little light there was as though the city were drawing its last breath before sinking into eternal darkness.

The icy air cut at her exposed skin. Every breath left her lips as a pale cloud, hanging for a moment before vanishing into the cold. A persistent, unpleasant smell hung in the air: stagnant water, soot and something metallic, perhaps rust. Beyond, the Thames seemed to give off its own foul stench, a reminder that even the water downstream reeked in a city that never slept.

Another bad night for earning any money, she thought.

She heard footsteps behind her and moved closer to the light of a gas lamp. The tension in her neck eased when she caught sight of two figures emerging from the fog, shadows advancing at a steady pace. Their footsteps echoed across the cobblestones, firm but unhurried.

Customers, at last, she thought as she stopped beneath the yellowish halo, barely bright enough to outline her figure.

With practised movements, she unfastened her coat. The cold bit into the bare skin of her shoulders and chest, but long experience had stripped her of any sense of modesty. She leaned forward slightly, letting the faint glow accentuate her figure, a trick she had perfected to catch the eye of even the most hesitant man.

“Looking for something, gentlemen?” she asked in a honeyed voice.

She raised her eyebrows in what was meant to be a flirtatious gesture, though inwardly she felt a stab of weariness.

The shadows advanced, gliding forwards as though they belonged to the fog itself. As they drew nearer, the details emerged: dark uniforms, silver badges on their tunics and tall custodian helmets topped with crests.

Police.

Alicia’s heart skipped a beat, and her seductive pose collapsed at once. She pulled her coat shut, trembling fingers fumbling with the buttons.

“You shouldn’t be out here at this hour, miss,” said one of them, a tall man with a square jaw and a stern expression whom Alicia recognised from previous encounters. “You know the authorities are advising people to stay indoors.”

The other policeman, shorter and more heavily built, stood with his hands clasped behind his back. He watched her with curiosity, but there was the faintest glimmer of mockery in his eyes too, as though he relished her discomfort.

She straightened and tried to recover some measure of dignity.

“I’m sorry, Officer. I... I was on my way home. It’s late, and I thought it would be safer to come this way,” she replied, without much conviction.

The truth did not matter. Men like them had already made up their minds before she had even opened her mouth.

“On your way home?” the shorter one repeated with a grin. “From where, exactly?”

Alicia shrugged and tried to look unconcerned, though the cold was creeping into her bones. She knew there was no right answer. There was no point pretending, either. They knew what she did for a living.

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” she said at last, lifting her chin in a show of defiance she knew she could not keep up for long.

The taller policeman stepped closer, near enough for Alicia to smell the tobacco on his breath.

“No one’s saying you’ve done anything wrong. But believe me, miss, it isn’t safe to be walking these streets at this hour. Especially for someone like you.”

The last words hung between them, heavy with meaning. Alicia felt her face grow hot, and it had nothing to do with the cold.

“I understand, Officer. I’ll get home as quick as I can, all right? You needn’t worry about me.”

The shorter policeman gave a snort that might have been a laugh.

“I hope so, miss. Because, truth be told, there are worse things than a vice raid or a night in gaol. The mayor has advised women not to go out alone after dark.”

“The mayor’s not going to pay for my meals or my rent,” she replied, a note of defiance in her voice.

“Off you go, then, before we have to escort you,” the taller man said, jerking his head towards the fog behind her. “If you have the bad luck to run into the wrong sort tonight, you won’t be paying for anything.”

Alicia nodded quickly. She muttered a token word of thanks, barely above a whisper, and turned away. She set off, aware that both men were watching her as she left. Her heart was pounding, and for a moment she thought she could hear the policemen’s footsteps behind her. But when she glanced over her shoulder, there was nothing except the fog.

At the next corner, she breathed a sigh of relief. Even so, she could not shake the feeling that someone was following her. She stopped and listened hard, but heard nothing. Only silence, thicker even than the mist.

While the policemen had been nearby, at least someone had been keeping an eye on the street. Now she was alone again.

It had not been a bad run. Over the past few months she had had her fair share of clients, but ever since the murders started, everything had become far less predictable. A young woman like her did not usually have to wait so long to catch a man’s eye. On any other night, by this hour she would already have taken one or two customers, perhaps even turned one away for not offering enough.

But fear was emptying the streets.

Men were going out less, staying in the public houses near their homes or heading back before the night properly set in. Those who still ventured into certain parts of town carried less money and argued over every penny. The economic crisis was not helping either. Work was scarce, hunger was spreading, and even men looking for company were trying to pay less than ever.

Alicia knew youth was a treasure she had to make the most of before it was gone. She was pretty, she was young, and she could still choose her clients—or at least that was what she had believed until recently. She hoped to find a rich man who would get her off the streets. He did not have to fall in love with her. It would be enough if he set her up in a house, paid her expenses and let her put aside enough money not to end up like so many other women she had known.

If she was to have any chance of that, she had to stay away from pimps.

In London, a woman like her could work for herself or under the eye of men like them. Many of the other girls depended on them because they had no protection, no money or no real choice. Working alone was more dangerous: it meant dealing with violent men, thieves and clients who refused to pay. But it also meant keeping the money.

Pimps promised protection, though often that protection was little more than another kind of threat. They controlled the women, decided where they worked and took a good share of what they earned. Alicia was not willing to hand over her money to anyone while she was still young enough to attract clients.

That was why she could not go home.

That night, however, the silence frightened her. It was the sort of stillness that told her something was wrong. Only the faint ring of a distant bell broke the quiet, perhaps from a public house, followed by a lone burst of laughter that died as quickly as it had begun. Somewhere, a horse-drawn cart rattled over the stones. Its echo carried in a slow, hollow rhythm before fading into the maze of alleyways.

Something felt wrong, though Alicia could not have said what, and for a moment she wished the policemen she had passed a few minutes earlier were still nearby.

She walked with her shoulders tense beneath her new red coat. Her skirt brushed her calves as she quickened her pace. She wore her hair loose, a little display that had always worked well with clients. Her handbag hung from her left arm, almost a part of her. She kept it pressed close to her side, as though a moment’s carelessness would be enough to lose the little money she had on her.

She had not seen a soul in the past half-hour apart from the officers, and that was not normal.

No matter how dead London looked, there was always some life left in it, even if only among the outcasts, the drunkards or the desperate. But that night the streets seemed to have given up. Fear had managed what neither fog nor cold could do on their own: keep people shut inside their homes.

“Where is everyone?”

Her boots rang against the cobblestones, the lonely echo seeming to follow her like a shadow. She shook her head, as though she might rid herself of the unease.

“It’s only the fog,” she told herself. “It always makes you nervous. When you can’t see more than a few yards ahead, you start thinking someone’s watching you.”

But the unease did not fade. It only grew.

It was not only the fog.

There was that killer as well, the one the newspapers kept talking about. Since the deaths had begun, the city’s nights had changed. Stallholders packed up earlier. Women walked in groups. Men who once lingered in the public houses went home looking over their shoulders.

And clients were scarce.

“Another night and not a penny to show for it. No men, no money. Just my luck,” she muttered.

The corner she had just reached was usually a good place to find men coming out of the public houses in search of warmth, comfort, youth, or whatever else they imagined they might find in the arms of a woman like her. On a normal night, all she had to do was wait near a street lamp and smile. Now there was no one.

Only emptiness.

Maybe she should go home, just as Nancy had told her. The two of them had gone out together so they could look after one another, but it had been more than an hour since her friend had found a client. Before leaving, Nancy had told her to go home rather than stay out alone.

Alicia had ignored her.

She could not do her work during the day. It was a night trade, just like the killer’s—the one who had been terrorising the city for months. Going home would mean losing another night’s earnings, and there had already been too many. The coins in her handbag were not enough to pay for the next day’s food, though at least she still had some bread and a little cheese.

She would not touch her savings.

Not unless she had no other choice.

London had never been a peaceful city. The economic crisis could be felt in every street, and it was not unusual for the police to find bodies in the Thames. There were fights, robberies, women beaten and men who vanished without anyone asking too many questions. But that killer had left a different mark on the city’s nights. He had made them emptier, more suspicious.

Poorer.

Even a young, attractive woman had trouble earning money. It did not matter how desirable she was if there were no men on the streets to see her.

And yet none of the victims mentioned in the newspapers had been prostitutes. They were all young like her, but none of them were women of the streets.

That thought comforted her.

Maybe the killer wanted a different sort of prey. Respectable girls, women who still had homes to return to and families who would report them missing. Not someone like Alicia. Not a woman whose disappearance would hardly surprise anyone.

She thought about the next day. On a night without fog, perhaps the clients would return in greater numbers. She could also try her luck in another part of the city. She had heard there was less competition in Whitechapel lately, though that came at a price: more danger, more men who refused to pay and more clients who demanded things she was not willing to do.

That did not matter now.

What mattered was that the street was still empty.

Too empty.

Alicia shivered, and not from the cold. She pulled her coat tighter around herself and fastened it firmly over her chest, as though the cloth might protect her from the unease beginning to coil up her spine. An unseen weight seemed to press down on her shoulders.

Her instincts screamed that she was not alone.

That someone was still there.

She stopped and tilted her head, straining to listen.

Nothing.

Only the stillness of the street, broken by the steady drip of water from a nearby gutter. Her own breathing seemed deafening, as though the whole world had narrowed to those faint, shallow breaths and the pounding of her heart.

Alicia shook her head.

“You’re getting yourself worked up. It’s the fog. It always puts you on edge. Pull yourself together. You need the money.”

She tried to believe it, but when she started walking again, her steps were quicker than she would have cared to admit.

Then she heard it.

One step.

Then another.

A faint but steady rhythm.

The echoes mingled with the muffled hum of the city, but they were there, unmistakably behind her.

Too close.

At first she thought it might be the policemen, but there was only one set of footsteps.

“Just someone on their way home. Maybe a client,” she muttered.

Even she did not believe it.

There was something deliberate about those footsteps. They did not sound like an uncertain client or a drunk wandering without purpose. They came on with a sinister calm, as though whoever was making them was in no hurry.

As though he knew he did not need to hurry.

Alicia did not want to turn round and see who it was.

She did not want to know.

Everything in her body told her she was in the wrong place at the worst possible time.

She quickened her pace. Her chest tightened and her legs began to burn, as though they already knew that within seconds she would have to run.

Behind her, the footsteps quickened too.

Click.

Click.

Then another.

Click.

Click.

Every time she went faster, the stranger did the same.

“God...” she whispered through clenched teeth.

She looked around for a way out. An open public house. A lit window. Anyone at all.

There was nothing.

The streets all looked the same beneath the fog, a maze of shadows where every corner led to another just like it.

She turned sharply to the right and hurried into a narrower alley. The air was damper there. It smelt of stagnant water and Thames mud. She stepped into a puddle that soaked the hem of her skirt, but barely noticed.

All she could think about was finding a way out.

If I can reach the next crossing... If I turn one more corner... Maybe I can lose him.

But the footsteps were still behind her.

Always the same distance away.

Always the same rhythm.

At the end of the alley, the Thames came into view.

The fog lay over the river like a filthy sheet, hiding the far bank. Alicia was panting without realising it. Her throat was dry, and her eyes darted across the wharf, searching wildly for any sign of life.

Nothing.

A few yards away, she could make out the outline of Tower Bridge.

If she could just reach it...

She kept running, her heart pounding out of control.

Then she found the courage to look back.

Nothing.

Only the fog, shifting slowly behind her.

The footsteps had stopped.

And the silence was far more frightening.

Alicia gave a nervous laugh.

“There’s no one there... Everything’s fine. You silly cow.”

She slowed down. She tried to steady her breathing, telling herself over and over that it had all been nerves.

Then the fog parted.

A figure emerged from the mist.

At first, she could make out only its shape.

Then she saw it clearly.

Relief shot through her.

“Oh, thank God...”

She even smiled.

Maybe she had never been in danger.

Maybe she had simply let fear get the better of her.

The figure kept coming towards her.

It did not say a word.

One step.

Then another.

And, without knowing why, her relief vanished.

There was something deeply unnatural about that stillness. It did not move like someone who had stumbled across another person in the middle of the night. It came on slowly, utterly calm, as though it had known from the start that they would end up face to face.

Alicia tried to step back.

She could not.

Her legs would not move.

That was when she understood the mistake she had just made.

L-1.930 Hamburg

The port city lay beneath a thin blanket of snow. Nearby factories belched smoke into the freezing air, where it mingled with the thick mist clinging to every corner. The wind cut like an invisible knife, biting into the skin of anyone with the nerve to be out on the streets at that hour.

But not everyone had a choice that night.

Some hunted.

Others were hunted.

Wolf moved through the shadows. His breath was barely visible in the frozen air. The cold meant nothing to him. He had died inside a long time ago.

There was no mercy in his hunt. No justice either. Only a list of names.

Wilhelm von Fersen stood at the top of it.

The snow crunched beneath his boots, but not loudly enough to betray him. In the distance, lights flickered, faint and scattered, as though the city itself knew what was about to happen. Hamburg looked like a living graveyard waiting for its next corpse.

The air stank of wet coal, stale beer and fear.

Factory chimneys spewed smoke over the rooftops while the harbour swallowed men and cargo with the patience of an old beast. Along the docks gathered sailors without ships, hollow-eyed veterans and labourers who had gone weeks without earning a wage.

Among them drifted prostitutes, gamblers, smugglers and political agitators. Some handed out pamphlets; others offered foreign tobacco, morphine or the name of a policeman willing to look the other way.

The streets no longer belonged to ordinary people.

The brownshirts marched down the avenues at dusk in tight formation. Their boots hammered against the cobbles in military rhythm, their songs rising between the soot-blackened façades. They guarded rallies, smashed up trade union halls and searched every face for a communist, a Jew or anyone foolish enough to meet their eyes.

In the working-class districts, the communists were waiting for them.

The Rotfrontkämpferbund had been outlawed, but many of its former members still gathered in cellars, beer halls and abandoned warehouses. They hid their armbands beneath their coats and kept truncheons, knives and revolvers left over from the war stashed among crates of beer.

When the SA entered their streets, windows were shut.

Then the shouting began.

That night, a column of brownshirts was making its way along the Reeperbahn under a steady drizzle. On the opposite side of the avenue, several workers watched from the doorway of a tavern. One spat on the ground. Another pulled open his coat, revealing the butt of a pistol.

The police formed a line between the two groups.

For a few seconds, Hamburg held its breath.

Then someone threw a stone.

The first policeman went down on one knee. The Nazis charged. The communists burst out of the tavern armed with clubs and iron bars.

Two shots rang out.

Then a third.

A tram screeched to a halt in the middle of the street. Passengers ducked below the windows. A woman lost a shoe as she ran for a doorway. Two men crashed through the display window of a shuttered shop and vanished in a shower of glass.

From a nearby rooftop, Wolf watched the city tear itself apart.

The flags meant nothing.

He had seen too many men kill for gods, kings and fatherlands. These were doing the same for symbols stitched onto an armband.

He pulled up the collar of his coat.

Through the mist, a black motorcar emerged.

Wolf watched it cross the avenue and leave the fighting behind. He knew the car. He knew the man inside it too.

He dropped from the rooftop and took a parallel route, moving across low roofs, through back courtyards and along alleyways where the light barely reached.

Some policemen tried to keep the two sides apart. Others laid into them with truncheons, showing far more enthusiasm than duty required. There were policemen who hated communists, policemen who despised Nazis and policemen willing to take money from anyone who could pay.

In Hamburg, the law wore a different uniform depending on the street.

The car headed into St. Pauli.

It was the city’s rotten heart.

Cabarets stained the mist with the glow of their electric signs. Music, laughter, insults and, now and then, the dull thud of a body hitting a wall spilled into the street. Industrialists, criminals and politicians drank at neighbouring tables, separated only by velvet curtains and discretion bought with money.

In the harbour taverns, men argued about Hitler, Moscow, Versailles and the price of bread. The arguments usually ended with a broken chair or a knife buried in a table.

Wolf kept following the motorcar from the shadows.

It pulled up outside a cabaret near the harbour. The rear door opened and Wilhelm von Fersen stepped out with two bodyguards.

A member of the Broderskap.

A trafficker.

A murderer.

One of the men who had built their fortune on the blood of families like his.

Wolf tightened his grip on the knife.

Before the night was over, Hamburg would have one more corpse.

The cabaret rose above the street like a jewel found in a sewer. A neon sign proclaimed its name: Der Silberne Schatten. Several letters flickered, casting sickly flashes across the puddles.

The entrance was adorned with gilded mouldings and guarded by two broad-shouldered men in expensive suits, their eyes as dead as stone. Behind the walls, the heavy pulse of music throbbed through the building.

Even in times of crisis, some businesses never stopped turning a profit.

This was one of Wilhelm’s domains, a kingdom of decay where every transaction had its price and every life its value. But that night, neither all his gold nor all his power would save him.

The Hunter had already marked him.

His fate was sealed.

Wolf waited until the door closed behind Wilhelm. Then he dropped from the roof and disappeared into a side alley.

Inside, the lamps bathed the hall in red light. Mahogany tables encircled the stage, where a dancer moved to the slow strains of a piano and a mournful saxophone. Her smile looked painted onto an exhausted face.

Men wearing gold watches drank imported spirits while the rest of Hamburg queued outside soup kitchens. Industrialists, civil servants and army officers shared tables with pimps and smugglers. Women drifted among them carrying drinks, fear lurking behind their eyes.

In a secluded corner, Wilhelm von Fersen occupied a round table.

To his right sat Jonas Adler, a city senator and aspiring mayor. He was a short, stout man, dressed with an elegance that never quite managed to conceal his nervousness.

Opposite him sat General Konrad Böhme, a veteran with an angular face and perfectly still hands.

Wilhelm’s two bodyguards remained behind him.

One of them leaned towards his employer.

“Herr von Fersen, Emmerich has friends among the Nazis. If we kill him, there could be repercussions.”

Wilhelm slowly turned the glass between his fingers.

“Emmerich has no friends. No one will stand up for him once they realise what they stand to lose.”

“He’s worked for us for nine years.”

“Then he should have learnt something by now.”

The bodyguard lowered his eyes.

“He’s spoken to a local SA leader.”

“A man who owes me money.”

Wilhelm took a sip.

“Emmerich offered him our routes, our warehouses and the names of several officials. In return, he wanted protection and a position in the Nazi Party.”

Jonas gave a dry laugh.

“Ambitious.”

Wilhelm looked at him.

The laughter died in the senator’s throat.

“Foolish,” Jonas corrected himself. “He mistook a flag for real power.”

General Böhme set his glass down.

“The Nazis are growing stronger. Today you may be able to buy one of their men. Tomorrow you may have to buy them all.”

“Then I’ll raise the price of the goods to pay for them. We hold the monopoly.”

“You speak as though Germany were just another one of your warehouses.”

“Germany is a warehouse, General. When the government changes, the guards’ uniforms change with it. The men who pay for, transport and conceal the goods remain the same. I fail to see why that concerns you so much.”

Böhme’s jaw tightened.

“Brüning has been in office for only a few months, and already he is governing by emergency decree. Parliament is paralysed. The communists control districts where the police go in by the squad and come out under a hail of stones. The SA are filling entire halls. The government could fall at any moment.”

Wilhelm set his glass down.

“Governments fall. Creditors keep knocking at the door. Germany owes money to half of Europe and depends on American banks to pay the other half.”

“Which is precisely why it may drag all of us down with it.”

“On the contrary. A country in debt will always need smugglers, middlemen and men capable of turning promises into goods.”

The general stared into his glass.

“Factories are closing. There are millions out of work, and whole families depend on public relief. Every week, the queues outside the soup kitchens grow longer.”

“And every week, more men are willing to work for me at half the price.”

Böhme looked at him with distaste.

“And more men are willing to follow Hitler or Moscow, provided someone promises them bread.”

Wilhelm shrugged.

“Nazis and communists sell the same goods in different wrapping: someone to blame, a promise and a uniform.”

“People are still bitter over Versailles,” Jonas put in. “The reparations, the lost territories, the humiliation... The moderate parties have nothing to offer them.”

“Which is why they’ll stop voting for them,” Böhme said. “When hunger comes through the door, moderation goes out the window.”

Wilhelm smiled.

“And when moderation disappears, men like me set the price of whatever remains.”

Jonas wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.

“There are still the files, the statements and the girls who escape from your establishments.”

Wilhelm studied him for several seconds.

“Which of them concerns you?”

The senator went pale.

“I’m speaking in general terms.”

“Of course you are.”

“A girl ran away from one of your establishments three nights ago. She talked. She named names.”

“Your name.”

Jonas tightened his grip on the handkerchief.

“She may have.”

“She did.”

The politician held his breath.

Wilhelm gave one of his bodyguards a slight nod. The man placed a small silver brooch on the table.

Jonas recognised it.

“Where did you get that?”

“She was wearing it when they found her by the canal.”

The senator stared at the brooch as though it were a pulled tooth.

“Is she dead?”

“The matter has been dealt with. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

Wilhelm slid the brooch across the table.

“Keep it. It will remind you that discretion is always cheaper than cleaning up a mess.”

Jonas closed his fingers around the brooch.

Böhme turned his eyes towards the stage.

“One day you’ll make a mistake.”

“I’ve made plenty.”

“Then you’ve been fortunate.”

Wilhelm smiled.

“Fortune is what weak men call it when they don’t know who paid the policeman, who owns the judge and who will bury the witness.”

The general said nothing.

One of Wilhelm’s men appeared beside the table and whispered in his ear. The magnate listened without the slightest change of expression.

“Is everything ready?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Warehouse Seventeen.”

“Have Emmerich write a confession.”

“What is he to confess to?”

“Everything.”

“And afterwards?”

Wilhelm looked at Jonas.

“The senator knows the answer.”

Jonas looked away.

“Make it look like the communists did it,” Wilhelm ordered. “Leave a red armband beside the body. The police will find exactly what they’re meant to find.”

The messenger nodded and left.

Böhme drummed a finger on the table.

“That will start another fight on the docks.”

“There’ll be a fight anyway.”

“People could die.”

“People do.”

“We’re talking about German workers.”

“We’re talking about men who’ll sell themselves tomorrow for a bowl of soup and a promise.”

The general looked at him with undisguised contempt.

“And you’ll be the one buying.”

“Naturally.”

The music came to an end. The dancer left the stage to scattered applause.

Jonas drained his glass.

“Let’s suppose the Nazis take power.”

Wilhelm raised an eyebrow.

“They will. Or they’ll destroy themselves trying.”

“They talk about cleansing the country. About wiping out decadence, prostitution, profiteers and criminals.”

“They say that for the benefit of the hungry.”

“They could turn against you.”

“They could try.”

“The communists might as well,” Böhme added. “If they seize power, they’ll confiscate your businesses and hang men like us from the lampposts.”

Wilhelm gave a low chuckle.

“That’s the difference between them and me. The communists want to destroy the rich. The Nazis want to use them. Both will need weapons, money, ships and men who know how to make bodies disappear.”

He leaned forward.

“I can provide all four.”

Jonas glanced around before lowering his voice.

“People are starting to talk about civil war.”

“People are always talking. That’s why they’re still out in the streets. No one can predict the future. But we are in a position to shape one that suits us.”

“The SA attacked two councillors last week.”

“A pair of fools...”

“One of them was an ally of mine.”

“Then you not only talk too much, you also choose your allies badly.”

Jonas pressed his lips together.

Wilhelm gestured towards his empty glass. A waitress appeared at once and refilled it. Beneath her make-up, a bruise darkened one cheek.

“Look at me, Jonas.”

The politician obeyed.

“Your house is under watch. Your debts have been paid. The police have misplaced three files that could have ruined you. Your wife believes you spend your nights working for the city, and your party believes you’re an honourable man.”

Wilhelm took a sip.

“Every bit of that exists because I allow it.”

Jonas swallowed.

“I understand.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.”

From the gallery, Grimwolf listened, taking in the cabaret’s decadent atmosphere.

It was a monument to decaying luxury. Soft crimson lights bled into the shadows, creating an air of seduction and danger. Polished mahogany tables and velvet-upholstered chairs encircled the stage, where a scantily clad dancer moved slowly to a melody that seemed to have drifted out of a fever dream.

The air reeked of expensive tobacco and heavy perfume, a blend meant to disguise the stench of the human trade taking place in every corner of the room. Men in tailored suits, gold watches glinting at their wrists, laughed in low voices over glasses of well-aged spirits. Each seemed more important than the last: politicians, industrialists, men who shaped the city—and the country—from the shadows. They all had one thing in common: an insatiable hunger for more power, more control, whatever the cost.

The women moved among them, their faces hidden behind practised smiles and vacant eyes. They knew their place. Their bodies were merchandise, and the luxury surrounding them was nothing more than a façade concealing the perversion traded at those tables. Deals were struck without words, through gestures, glances and bodies offered, bargained over and sold.

General Böhme had little interest in Jonas’s personal concerns. He leaned forward.

“Changing the subject... the shipment arrives tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“The last delivery very nearly went wrong. A patrol turned up ahead of schedule.”

“One inspector decided his price had gone up.”

“And where is he now?”

“Looking for work in Bremen, if he had any sense.”

“And if he didn’t?”

Wilhelm smiled without showing his teeth.

Böhme understood.

“There are four hundred crates,” the general went on. “Rifles, ammunition and explosives. If anyone opens one of them, there’ll be questions.”

“The crates will bear Ministry of Agriculture seals.”

Jonas frowned.

“Agriculture?”

“Farm machinery.”

“There’ll be rifles inside.”

“In Germany they serve for harvesting as well. Who do you imagine is going to open crates aboard one of my ships? The right inspectors are already paid for... What’s the matter tonight? Why is everyone so nervous? Is there something I don’t know?”

The general gave an uneasy laugh.

“It’s just the state of the country...”

Wilhelm raised his glass towards him.

“Hamburg is still a safe harbour. The right inspectors will be paid. The wrong ones will receive an anonymous tip-off. The police will find two empty crates, arrest three communist dockers and release a photograph to reassure the press.”

“And the rest of the shipment?” Böhme asked.

“It will be on its way to Bavaria before dawn.”

Jonas glanced around the room.

“You talk as though you control every corner of this city.”

“I control the corners that matter. I know—and pay—everyone capable of bringing the operation to a halt.”

High above in the gallery, concealed behind a lattice screen, Wolf listened.

He had entered through a second-floor window, crossed a service corridor and subdued a guard before the man could cry out. Now he watched Wilhelm from the shadows.

The magnate looked calm.

Too calm.

He spoke of corpses, women and arms shipments as though he were going over a factory ledger. The men around him feared him, but they depended on him as well.

That made him more dangerous than any common criminal.

Wolf rolled a knife between his fingers.

Below, Wilhelm raised his head.

For an instant, he looked straight towards the gallery.

Wolf did not move.

The magnate’s eyes narrowed.

“Is something wrong?” Jonas asked.

Wilhelm kept his gaze fixed on the darkness.

“I thought I felt a draught.”

The general glanced around.

“There aren’t many draughts in this place.”

“Instinct...”

Wolf took one step back.

Wilhelm raised the glass to his lips and gave one of his bodyguards a slight nod.

“Have the exits checked. See if there’s anyone in the club we don’t know. Anyone who doesn’t belong... Check the gallery as well.”

One of the bodyguards left the table.

Wolf watched him go and slipped the knife away.

The hunt had not begun.

First he needed to know how many men guarded his quarry, which exits they used and where the car would be waiting.

The blood would come later.

A new song began on the stage.

Wilhelm turned back to the conversation, though his eyes kept drifting towards the gallery.

“As I was saying,” he murmured, “in times of chaos, every man has his price.”

Wolf vanished into the corridor.

Wilhelm was mistaken.

Not every potential enemy could be bought, and some men were driven by only one debt.

The hunt was about to begin, and neither the power of the Broderskap nor its web of connections would save him that night. He had built his fortune by carrying on his family’s centuries-old enterprises, controlling key industries across Europe, from arms manufacturing to energy. Clever though he was, arrogance had convinced him that no one could challenge him—a mistake that would not help him live to see the following morning.

The businessman emerged from the club with a dark-haired young woman on his arm, barely twenty and scarcely dressed. Her skin was exposed to the winter cold as though the freezing air meant nothing in her world of luxury and excess. Two bodyguards stayed close behind, alert to every movement, while the third, his driver, was already waiting beside the motorcar.

His hunter moved across the rooftops with the effortless grace of a snake slipping through long grass. His presence went unnoticed. The mist was his ally. Hamburg, heavy with the smell of salt and factory smoke, seemed to breathe beside him. Somewhere out in the harbour, ships sounded their horns, providing the perfect accompaniment to the hunt.

The magnate climbed into the car without a glance at his surroundings, too occupied with kissing the woman. The guards were more alert, but even they had no idea how quickly their lives—and the security they took for granted—were about to fall apart.

The Hunter took up position in a dark corner of the alley they would have to pass. His cold eyes measured every movement. There was no room for error.

When the car was halfway across the street, he threw one of his knives at a lamp post, putting out the light at once. The darkness deepened. A second knife struck one of the car’s tyres. The vehicle jolted to a halt as the tyre burst.

The businessman, still absorbed in the woman, did not react at once. His bodyguards did. Both men climbed out, senses sharpened, searching the street for something they could see. To them, a threat meant an armed man or a direct attack. But he was no ordinary man.

He was the shadow.

The driver got out, muttering under his breath, and went straight to inspect the wheel. Meanwhile, one of the guards strayed too far towards the end of the street.

It was the opening the Hunter needed.

He slipped through the shadows without a sound. His footsteps were barely audible on the wet, snow-covered pavement. In a single movement, he came up behind the guard. The knife drove into his throat, quick and precise. The man crumpled to the ground, dead before he had a chance to react or cry out.

The second bodyguard noticed his companion was missing and called to him in a low voice, peering into the mist. There was no reply. He moved closer, scanning the empty street. Just as he was about to turn, his executioner rose behind him like a shadow. One clean, precise cut at the base of the skull, and the second man dropped without a sound.

The Hunter withdrew into the shadows, moving swiftly as he watched his plan unfold. Wilhelm was still inside the car, though unease had begun to set in. The silence was wrong, and the absence of his men had not gone unnoticed. He leaned out of the window and called to the driver, the first trace of concern beginning to stain his arrogance.

“Where are the others?”

Still on his knees, the chauffeur was trying to change the wheel as quickly as he could.

“They were here a moment ago...”

A shadow was on him in an instant. Before he could react, a gloved hand clamped over his mouth while the knife slid cleanly across his throat. His body fell beside the car. Blood stained the snow beneath him.

The dark-haired woman flung open the door and ran screaming towards the end of the alley. Within seconds, the mist had swallowed her.

The businessman stepped out of the car, finally aware of what was happening. He had never needed bodyguards. He was an emissary of Hell, descended from gods who had once shaped the world with their own hands.

“Do you know who I am?” said the man who had just killed his employees.

The magnate clenched his jaw, forcing himself to remain composed. Beneath his habitual arrogance, surprise and fury flickered across his face. He squared up to his opponent, smoothing his jacket with deliberate disdain.

“A madman who has no idea whom he’s dealing with. And you? Do you know who I am?” His voice dripped with venom. “The moment you killed my men, you signed your own death warrant.”

His opponent said nothing.

Silence was answer enough. His stance spoke more eloquently than words ever could. He held the knife with effortless ease, his eyes fixed on Wilhelm like a predator that had already decided how its prey would die.

Wilhelm frowned. His pride remained intact, but his anger was growing. He leaned forward as the mist curled around him.

“You’re a fool who doesn’t know whom he’s dealing with,” he said, utterly certain of himself. “This will be over in seconds.”

Then he lunged.

His supernatural speed reduced him to a blur, a fleeting shadow beneath the moonlight. Driven by the power of his bloodline, his hands shot straight for the Hunter’s throat, certain that a single strike would end the fight.

But Wolf had been waiting.

With effortless precision, he slipped aside. Wilhelm’s hands sliced through empty air where his throat had been a heartbeat before. Trusting his superior speed, the German twisted and drove an elbow towards him.

It never landed.

Wolf was already gone.

He gave ground by a single step, creating just enough space before driving a fist into Wilhelm’s abdomen. The German managed to deflect the blow with the heel of his hand. He grunted but kept coming.

“Who the fuck are you?” Wilhelm roared. “Who sent you?”

Snow began to fall.

The German pressed the attack, unleashing a relentless barrage of brutal punches. His hands cracked through the air like whips, trying to catch an opponent who still had not drawn on the knife.

The Hunter moved like a spectre. Every blow missed him by inches. Every attack met empty air. His precision was ruthless. He twisted clear of a punch, pivoted on his right foot and buried a clenched fist in Wilhelm’s ribs. The magnate grunted in pain but refused to yield. Deep down, he still believed he could win.

Frustration got the better of him.

Wilhelm attacked again with even greater speed. The mist turned him into a fleeting shadow, changing direction without warning. For an instant he seemed to dissolve into the steam rising from the drains before reappearing off Wolf’s left flank, convinced he had finally found a blind spot.

He had not.

Wolf had tracked every movement.

With inhuman speed, he turned, caught Wilhelm’s arm in mid-strike and wrenched it down, using the momentum to drive a crushing blow into the German’s shoulder.

Wilhelm cried out as something that felt like solid steel crashed into his flesh. With a roar of fury, he swung his free hand at his enemy’s face, but Wolf tilted his head aside and let the blow pass.

The businessman drew back, fully aware for the first time of the man he was facing.

Wolf kept his eyes fixed on him. For the first time, Wilhelm was retreating, conscious of the true danger before him. The arrogance was beginning to drain from his face.

“Do you know who I am now?” The Hunter stepped forward, his voice low and merciless. “Do you remember me?”

Wilhelm spat blood onto the ground. Hatred burned in his eyes. Even then, a sneer of contempt twisted his face.

“The Hunter. You’re that worthless bastard the sailors call Grimwolf. Now I remember your wife as well... and your children begging for their lives,” he said with a cruel smile as armour began to form around him.