Paul sighted, while looking at Guiseppe, who was still pressing his body on the ground, not daring to move even an inch.
He gave Fischer a quick glance, before turning towards Lang, who was pushing off the dust and dirt from his uniform.
"It seems like they roughly know where we are. If we continue like this it will only be a matter of time before we slip up and they find us," Paul said with a frown.
Lang seemed to be in thought for a moment. "What other choice do we have?"
Paul answered: "I’ve thought of something when the truck drove past. They know everything, our position, our numbers and our uniforms. We are at a clear disadvantage in intel, so the first thing we should do is to change that into us having the advantage. How about we try to ambush a group of Spanish soldiers and impersonate them?"
Lang looked at him sternly, folding his hands behind his back as if to steady a restless body. Thought creased his brow, he blinked once, then spoke slowly.
"I know it’s dangerous," Paul said, forcing the words out. "But it’s the only chance I see if we want to get out of this net."
"Tell me more," Lang asked with a hint of skepticism.
Paul’s eyes dropped to the figure of Guisseppe. He let his hand rest on the man’s shoulder. "We could use him," he said simply.
All eyes turned to Guisseppe. The man, knew at once that something was amiss, he began to shake his head so violently the dirt on his cap rattled. His lips parted mumbling something Spanish and then, with a sudden stubbornness, he tilted his head to the side.
Now all eyes turned to Fischer, who let out an uncomfortable, nearly angry laugh, scratching at the back of his neck.
"I won’t translate the last part word for word," he muttered, "but he knows you want something from him. He said he is only here to bring us to Salamanca, nothing more and in the end...he insulted us.
The words hung in the air like dust after a shot.
Paul narrowed his eyes at Guisseppe, who was still stubbornly tilting his head away from them. Lang’s jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists against his uniform trousers. For a moment, nobody spoke; the only sound was the faint, steady crackle of the radio, a reminder that their hunters were still out there.
That was the last push needed to send Paul over the edge. His anger, held back for hours like a dam about to burst, finally erupted.
He yanked his pistol free in a single, vicious motion and strode toward Guisseppe. Before anyone could react, the cold steel of the barrel pressed against the Spaniard’s forehead.
Guisseppe froze, his breath hitching in his throat, eyes widening in raw terror. His lips moved without sound, as though a prayer had been cut off before it could leave him.
"Enough!" Paul barked, his voice cracking through the air like a whip. "I’ve had it with your half-answers, your games. You think you can choose when this ends? No. Not anymore. Either you help us, or I put you in the ground right here."
Lang’s eyes went wide, and for the first time since they’d been stranded, he looked genuinely unsettled. "Paul..." he started, hand half-raised, "don’t be a fool. We need him alive. You pull that trigger, and we’ve lost the only man who knows this country better than the bastards hunting us."
Weber shifted uneasily, but there was a flicker of something, approval, maybe, in his eyes. "If you ask me, he’s dead weight already. Might be cleaner this way."
Guisseppe whimpered, finally finding his voice, stumbling over broken German. "No, please! Salamanca. I take you. I swear it. I swear! And the other thing!Yes, yes!" His whole body trembled, the stubborn set in his jaw had melted into desperate pleading.
Paul looked into Guisseppe’s eyes for a long, slow moment. Then he slowly lowered the pistol and put it away.
"Listen," he said, his voice low and controlled now. He turned slightly so Fischer could see him, so there was no mistaking who held the plan. "We don’t kill him. We use him." His gaze flicked to Lang, then back to Guisseppe. "You’ll be the bait. We’ll make you look like a straggler, wounded, confused, maybe beaten. You lie on the road where anyone coming down the valley will see you. If they find you, they’ll stop and check. While they do, Fischer and Weber", he pointed to each man in turn, "are hidden a few paces away, ready to cut off anyone who comes close. Lang and I will stay on the opposite side of the road with the radio and watch the ridge. If they bring a small escort, all of us move in and take their kit and their papers. If they bring more, we fall back on my mark."
While Fischer was still translating, Paul looked for approval from Lang, who was still the highest‑ranking officer in their group.
Lang’s eyes flicked from Paul to Guiseppe, slow and unreadable, for a long beat nothing moved but their breathing.
Finally Lang gave a shallow, reluctant nod. "If we do this, we don’t hesitate," he said. "One cut, one pull. We take what we need and vanish. No speeches, no mercy for mistakes."
Before lang could continue, a loud, protesting voice came from the side. It was Guiseppe again, now understanding the plan fully.
Paul’s gaze went cold as steel. Before Guiseppe could gather his wits, Paul lunged again, seized him by the collar and slammed him to the dusty ground. He had enough of this bullshit.
He spared a quick look at Fischer, voice low as a threat. "Tell him this." He turned back and tightened his grip until Guiseppe flinched. "One more word and I will actually pull the trigger. And if you undermine our plan, if you tell the Spaniards where we are or what we intend, know this: my muzzle will never leave you. The first sign of betrayal, the slightest hesitation, and I will shoot. I won’t miss. Nothing else will matter."
Fischer repeated Paul’s warning in rough Spanish, loud enough for Guisseppe to hear every syllable. The Spaniard’s shoulders cramped; the stubborn glare in his eyes broke and something smaller, rawer, slid in its place. He swallowed, a sound too big for his throat, and finally spat the single word the men needed: "Si."
Paul let him go, his finger leaving deep marks on Guiseppe’s shirt. He hauled the younger man to his feet, shoved him a few steps thorugh the tall grass and forced him to the ground beneath a broken olive. With tear, he ripped open Guiseppe’s pants, exposing the gunshot wound, they had inflicted on him earlier.
Fischer and Weber melted into the grass a short distance off, rifles sharp and eyes flat. Paul crouched besides Lang, neither of them saying a word, forming a completely silent moment.
Paul didn’t mind; his eyes and ears were locked on the radio and the far road. Still, he caught Lang glancing at him from time to time.
They waited for about twenty minutes before Paul finally spotted something in the distance, the same dot he had seen before. He turned quickly and gave Lang a nod.
Paul’s palms began to sweat. The sound of an engine reached them; his breathing quickened. The sound grew louder. Everything in his body prepared itself for the decisive moment that would follow.
Come on, stop, he pleaded silently. The truck was now only about a hundred metres from Guisseppe’s spot.
Then—it stoped.
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