London – American Embassy, November 1943

  Secret Briefing Room – Safe House, Westminster

  The air inside the briefing room was thick with the scent of stale coffee, burning tobacco, and the ever-present dampness that clung to London in November. A single desk lamp cast a dull glow over the polished oak table, illuminating stacks of intelligence reports, coded transmissions, and reconnaissance photographs spread across its surface.

  William J. Donovan, the head of the Office of Strategic Services, sat at the head of the table, flipping through the latest reports with a practiced eye. A cigar smoldering between his fingers. Across from him, Lucas Halloway leaned back slightly in his chair, his own cigarette burning down in the ashtray beside him.

  The room was small, tucked away in an unassuming safe house not far from the American embassy. A handful of Donovan’s closest officers moved in and out throughout the day, but for now, it was just the two of them. Along with a locked briefcase of war updates that most men in uniform would never lay eyes on.

  Donovan flipped another page, nodding slightly as his eyes scanned the words. “Not bad,” he muttered, the gravel in his voice softened by a hint of approval. “Dawson and Reed are still making themselves useful.”

  Lucas exhaled a long stream of smoke and nodded. “Last transmission came in three days ago. They knocked out a supply depot outside of Orléans, took out a Sturmbannführer along with a handful of his men. Looked like they were running logistics for a tank division further south. With any luck, that’ll put a nice wrench in their schedule.”

  Donovan smirked, taking another slow puff from his cigar. “Any pushback from the locals?”

  Lucas shook his head. “Not from what we can tell. The Resistance is keeping their heads down, but the Gestapo’s tightening their grip in response. A few more hangings in the town squares. Standard German tactics. Make an example of a few, keep the rest in line.”

  Donovan sighed through his nose, flipping to the next file. He’d seen this play out before. The closer the Allies got to real action in France, the more desperate the Germans would become. The Maquisards and local Resistance networks were already risking everything. And the OSS? Well, they weren’t there to make friends. They were there to turn that desperation against the Reich.

  Lucas tapped the side of his cigarette against the edge of the ashtray. “Still no word from Wright and Harrington.”

  Donovan didn’t look up immediately. He turned another page, nodding slightly, as if he had already expected the news. “How long?”

  “Three months now.” Lucas rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “No contact. No intercepted radio chatter. They could be underground, too deep in to risk signaling. Could be dead.”

  Donovan exhaled a slow breath, his eyes scanning over the last report they’d received from the missing men. It had been promising. Sabotage along the rail lines between Rouen and Caen, whispers of a planned hit on a Gestapo officer. And then… silence.

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  Lucas shrugged, but there was little humor in it. “At this point, sir, we’re working with the same three possibilities we always do.” He held up three fingers and counted them off. “One, they’re keeping their heads down, waiting for the right moment. Two, they’re sitting in some basement with their fingernails missing, getting real acquainted with German hospitality. Or three…” He let the last one go unsaid.

  Donovan nodded grimly. “Keep listening. If they surface, I want to know immediately.”

  Lucas gave a short nod. “Understood.”

  Donovan closed the file, setting it aside. Then, he reached for another. Thicker, heavier with reports and reconnaissance notes. He flipped it open, skimming over the first few pages before looking up again.

  “And Granger?” he asked, the name carrying a different weight.

  Lucas exhaled through his nose, a small, knowing smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Haven’t heard much,” he admitted. “But when I do… it sounds like he’s been busy.”

  Donovan arched a brow, leaning back in his chair. “Define ‘busy.’”

  Lucas smirked, pulling a folded sheet of notes from his inside pocket and flattening it against the table. “The Resistance calls them the “Chasseurs de Têtes” … Head Hunters.”

  Donovan’s expression didn’t change, but he tapped the cigar’s ash off into a nearby tray. “Sounds dramatic.”

  Lucas’s smirk remained. “It fits. The Germans sure as hell don’t like them.”

  Donovan leaned forward, scanning over the bullet points. The reports painted a picture of a small, highly mobile unit, striking hard and disappearing into the forests, marshes, and ruins before the Germans could mount a proper response.

  “Hit-and-run attacks, ambushes, strategic eliminations,” Lucas continued. “Rail lines, collaborators, officers, bridges, ammunition depots. All fair game. They took out a Luftwaffe officer overseeing supply runs near Bourges last month. Left a burning wreck where his convoy used to be.” He flipped a page. “Two weeks ago, they hit an Abwehr safe house in Limoges. No survivors. Just a few well-placed bodies and some scattered German intelligence that made its way back to us.”

  Donovan nodded approvingly. “Efficient.”

  Lucas chuckled. “That’s one word for it. The reports we’re getting say they’re damn ghosts. They don’t fight fair, they don’t hold ground, and they sure as hell don’t leave much behind for the Germans to work with.” His smirk widened slightly. “They seem to be taking a page from the American Indians… especially Granger.”

  Donovan’s eyes flicked up at that. “How so?”

  Lucas tilted his head. “Guerrilla-style engagements, using the terrain to trap and outmaneuver larger forces. Ambush tactics, psychological warfare, leaving calling cards. It’s not just about winning fights. It’s about getting in their heads.” He chuckled. “Pretty sure they’re not scalping anyone… yet.”

  Donovan let out a short, dry laugh, shaking his head. “Hell of a thing.”

  Lucas nodded. “The Germans have put a bounty on their heads. 30,000 Reichsmarks. Dead or alive.”

  Donovan raised a brow. “Not bad for a Montana ranch hand.”

  Lucas grinned. “Means he’s doing something right.”

  Donovan leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers thoughtfully against the table. “So… ruthless, effective, and giving the Krauts nightmares. Just the kind of results we were hoping for.”

  Lucas nodded. “That’s about the size of it, sir.”

  For a moment, Donovan sat in silence, flipping through the reports one last time. Then, with a final nod, he stacked the files neatly and closed them.

  “So far, so good,” he said, his voice even. “But I want to know the moment you hear anything from Wright and Harrington. Dead, captured, or in the wind. I want answers.”

  Lucas straightened in his chair. “Understood, sir.”

  Donovan stubbed out his cigar, brushing ash from his sleeve as he stood. “That’ll be all for now. Keep your ears open, and make sure Granger doesn’t go too far off the leash.”

  Lucas stood as well, smoothing out his uniform. “With all due respect, sir, I don’t think Granger’s ever been on a leash.”

  Donovan smirked, shaking his head. “Fair enough. Dismissed.”

  Lucas gave a sharp nod, gathering his notes as he turned for the door. As he stepped into the hallway, he exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair.