The bitter wind off the English countryside clawed at the windows of a reinforced briefing room tucked within the belly of RAF Tempsford. A converted maintenance hangar now sealed tight for security, it smelled of stale coffee, engine grease, and sweat. The walls were lined with blackout curtains and corkboards, some cluttered with pinned intel reports, others bearing hand-marked maps of Eastern Europe.

  Inside, cigarette smoke clung thick in the air. Ten men sat around a long, scuffed wooden table. British and American alike, drawn from a patchwork of OSS, SOE, and a handful of frontline veterans who’d had firsthand encounters with the creatures, barely survived brief skirmishes in the forests of France or the outskirts of Belgium. A few leaned back in their chairs, arms folded, quietly skeptical. Others leaned forward, eyes narrowed, tracking every line on the map spread across the table, absorbing every inch like it might save their lives.

  At the head of the room stood a hardened U.S. Army Colonel. His nameplate read COL. R. MCCARTHY, and his salt-and-pepper hair was clipped short like the business end of a wire brush. Two enlisted men stood nearby at a folding easel, adjusting the placement of a large map of Poland, red lines and symbols marked with surgical precision.

  Lucas Halloway sat in the back, silent, arms crossed, one leg lazily over the other. He didn’t need to say anything. Not yet.

  The Colonel cleared his throat, snapping the room to silence. "Gentlemen," he began, voice firm and clean, with the slightest midwestern accent. "You’ve been selected for Operation Trapper due to a very specific set of qualifications. Chief among them, your ability to adapt to... unconventional threats."

  A dry chuckle rumbled from one or two of the men, but the Colonel’s gaze swept across the table like a searchlight, and the noise died quick.

  “This mission is classified at the highest level,” he continued. “Officially, a C-47 transport will be delivering supplies to the Soviets as part of the Lend-Lease agreement. Departing from an allied held strip in Naples Italy. Unofficially, you men will be inserted beyond the German lines and into a contested zone in Poland. Your goal… track and capture one of these hybrids alive.”

  He gestured toward the map with a small metal pointer, tapping it against a marked treeline. “You’ll parachute under cover of darkness into this sector, just west of the Soviet advance. Your primary objective is not engagement, it’s retrieval. Capture one of these creatures, sedate it, and secure it for extraction.”

  He let that hang.

  A few men shifted. A wiry corporal from the British side raised an eyebrow. "With all due respect, sir... why Poland? Why not hunt the bastards closer to home?"

  McCarthy didn’t blink. "Because they’re not here anymore. At least we've not had any reports in some time. Intel shows heavy concentration of hybrid activity in eastern Poland. Best we can tell, the Reich pulled their ‘special projects’ from the Western Front as the Russians closed in. Hitler’s throwing everything he has between Berlin and the Red Army. That includes these things."

  A burly American sergeant, name tag WEXLER, cigar in his teeth grunted. "So we’re walking into a meat grinder." He said flatly

  "That’s why you’re here, Sergeant," the Colonel said flatly. “Which is why you’re all here. We’ve assembled the best for this mission. That includes Lieutenant Granger,” he added, gesturing to Emmett, who sat slouched in his chair, his hat tipped back on his head.

  The group turned to Emmett, and one of the Brits, a lanky man with a cocky grin, gave a low whistle. “You’re the bloke who fought one of these things, yeah?” he asked, his gaze lingering on Emmett’s eyepatch and the scars visible along his cheek. “I can bloody well tell.”

  Emmett grinned lazily, his cigarette dangling from his lips. “You should see the other guy,” he said, drawing a round of chuckles from the table.

  The Colonel allowed the levity for a moment before bringing the room back to focus. "Lieutenant Granger is the only man on record to survive a close-quarters engagement with one of these hybrids. That makes him your subject matter expert, like it or not."

  Another Brit snorted. "Hell of a subject."

  The Colonel ignored the comment and pointed again to the map. “Your C-47 will land here to deliver the supplies. Conveniently, the aircraft will encounter mechanical issues that will require several days’ delay. That gives us a window, four to five days. In addition, the aircrew will have two liaisons assigned to smooth things over and entertain Soviet command on-site. Their job is to keep the Reds distracted and help buy that window you need."

  He stepped away from the easel, and folded his arms.

  “You’ll trail Soviet patrols in the area, locate and subdue one of these hybrids, and deliver the sedated subject to the airfield. The crew will place a crate near the edge of the field, close to the treeline, where you’ll load it discreetly.”

  He drew a line to a marked secondary airstrip. “If the primary location is compromised, or the C-47 is forced to depart, you’ll fall back to this secondary LZ. It’s closer to Soviet lines, which increases your risk of detection. Use it only if absolutely necessary. Should you need to activate the secondary LZ, contact us immediately on the HF radio. We’ll arrange an extraction flight under Lend-Lease cover. If you are unable to contact us, and miss the handoff, we will arrange for the secondary aircraft to arrive at this airstrip regardless. If this is the case, expect the aircraft within three days.”

  A hand shot up. “Sir, what about us? No way in hell we’re sneaking back onto that C-47 in front of the Reds.”

  McCarthy nodded. “Good question. Upon successful delivery of the specimen, you’ll travel on foot to Allied-held lines. You have two viable routes. South through Czechoslovakia to link up with Allied-aligned partisans, or west toward Luxembourg, where U.S. and British forces are consolidating. Either path will be difficult, but we are confident in your abilities.”

  There was a long, tense pause.

  “Travel on foot, sir?” another man echoed quietly. McCarthy nodded again, his face grave. “We know this will be difficult. To say the least. But the value of this mission justifies the risk. I’ll reiterate…you’ve all been selected because you’re the kind of men who can handle this.”

  A younger American spoke up, voice tight. “And the locals? Krauts? Reds? What if we run into trouble?”

  McCarthy’s gaze sharpened. “Avoid contact at all costs. Discretion is paramount. If it comes to a fight, defend yourselves, but only if you have no other choice. Stay invisible.”

  The Colonel turned to a side table stacked with thick manila envelopes, each one marked with a red wax seal and labeled with a number. He gestured to them. "Each of you will receive your own dossier," he said. "Inside, you’ll find terrain maps, enemy contact reports, Soviet patrol grids, and everything we know about the hybrids. Including anatomical sketches, behavioral notes, and anything else we have on them. Read it. Memorize it. Burn it into your skull."

  He gave the room a moment to absorb the gravity, then continued. "Review them during downtime. Learn the terrain. Study these things. Rest while you can, but keep your gear in check. When the time comes, you’ll be expected to move fast, strike clean, and disappear."

  He paused, then added quietly, "This mission is extremely difficult, I wont lie about that. But we’re not sending paper men. Success matters. But survival matters too. Bring each other home.” He added, "Tomorrow, there will be a refresher course for parachuting. We know many of you have the training, but for others, it's been some time… or nonexistent. I apologize for those of you who are new to this. We will do all we can to prepare you, in the limited time we have."

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Silence settled again. Then Emmett muttered dryly, "This sounds damn crazy."

  McCarthy looked at him. "Something to add, Lieutenant?"

  Emmett shrugged lazily. "Just admiring the optimism, sir."

  The Colonel held up his hands, cutting off the laughter that was beginning to build, and shot an annoyed look at Emmett. With a sigh, he turned toward the back of the room. "Mr. Halloway, why don’t you show the men what we’ve added to their kit."

  Lucas stood and nodded, moving to a crate set off to the side. Colonel McCarthy stepped aside as Lucas took the front of the room, offering a brief smile.

  "I suppose introductions aren’t necessary," Lucas began, brushing the lid of the crate. "But for those of you still squinting through the smoke, I’m Lucas Halloway."

  He flipped the lid off and pulled out a wooden case, setting it carefully on the table. Unlatching it, he lifted the top to reveal a lined interior housing a odd, bulky handgun with a long barrel.

  "We’re not expecting any of you to get close enough to these things to club 'em unconscious," Lucas said. "So we’ve included some specialized hardware. Each of you will be issued one of these tranquilizer guns. Twelve darts per man. Each dart contains a heavy-dose sedative, tested under controlled conditions. We estimate it’ll bring one of these bastards down in two to four minutes."

  He let that sink in before continuing. "Now, don’t count on that timing. Could take longer depending on body mass, adrenaline, or what kind of mood it's in. And don’t…don’t…shoot it twice. Too much of this stuff will likely kill it, and that defeats the whole point.”

  Lucas picked up one of the darts and held it between his fingers. "Each dose should keep the subject under for up to eight to ten hours. Once it’s down, keep it down. You can directly inject the contents manually. Sorta like a syringe, with a very stiff plunger.”

  He set the dart back in place and tapped the crate with his knuckles. "We’ll be setting up a section of the hangar as a practice range. You’ll each have time to handle the tranq guns using dummy rounds. Get a feel for the grip, the sights, the trigger pull. It's not exactly a precision weapon, but it helps to know how it works."

  He then pulled out a smaller box. Opening it revealed several clear bottles with a viscous, off-white liquid inside. "This here’s scent cover. Assume these hybrids can smell better than a wolf on full alert. Lather this onto your gear, your outerwear. Hell, rub it on your skin. But don’t get it in your eyes, and don’t drink it," he added, flashing a grin that drew a few dry chuckles.

  His expression turned more serious as he looked across the room, his eyes lingering on Emmett. "Look, I appreciate you boys stepping into this. But don’t forget… this isn’t just about bagging a monster. It’s about finding the man who made it."

  He stepped back and nodded toward McCarthy. "Colonel."

  McCarthy returned to the front of the room. "You have four days. Review your dossiers, test your gear. Get rest while you can. Eat something warm. And think hard about the mission you’re walking into."

  He looked around the table. "Any further questions?"

  The room stayed silent.

  "Halloway and I will be onsite throughout your prep window if anything comes up. Otherwise… get studying. Get ready. And enjoy these next few days. You’ll earn ‘em."

  Emmett sighed, rising slowly as the men stood and began collecting their dossiers from the side table. The rustle of paper and muttered comments filled the room. As he walked toward the stack, a few of the men eyed him. Curious, wary.

  The lanky Brit with the cocky grin stepped forward and offered a hand. "Name’s Corporal Malcolm Wynn. SOE."

  Emmett barely glanced at him. "Good for you," he muttered, grabbing his own dossier.

  Wynn huffed, lowering his hand slightly. "No reason to be like that, mate. We’re all on the same side here."

  Emmett sighed and stopped. With the cigarette still smoldering between his fingers, he extended his hand, giving a quick shake. "Lieutenant Granger."

  Wynn gave a nod, then leaned in a little. "So what’s it like? Seeing one up close?"

  Emmett’s eye locked onto him, expression unreadable. "Terrifying."

  He paused, then forced himself to soften slightly. "Look, these things are faster, stronger. If it’s between putting one down or playing cowboy with a tranq… kill it. Empty the clip into it’s head. Don’t hesitate."

  Wynn gave a short nod, expression turning serious. "That’s more or less where my head was already."

  From across the room, Lucas called out Emmett’s name.

  Emmett gave Wynn a firm handshake, then turned and made his way past the rest of the gathering men without another word.

  He approached Lucas, who was leaning against the wall near the door, arms folded as he watched the men filter out.

  "What you think?" Lucas asked, voice quiet but steady.

  Emmett huffed and ran a hand through his hair. "I think the whole thing’s nuts," he said. "But I get the point."

  Lucas nodded slowly. He gestured lightly toward Emmett’s face, his fingers circling near the eyepatch. "How’s the pain... with the whole situation?"

  Emmett didn’t answer immediately. His jaw flexed before he muttered, "I’m managing."

  Lucas gave a faint, almost sympathetic smile and reached into his coat. He pulled out a small glass bottle filled with dull white pills and handed it to Emmett. "These should help. Just one a day, alright?"

  Emmett took it without a word, shook one loose, and popped it into his mouth dry.

  Lucas raised an eyebrow. "Not going to ask what it is?"

  "Nope," Emmett said simply. "Figured whatever it is, can’t be worse than the shit creek we’re about to jump in."

  Lucas chuckled and nodded. "Yeah, this whole thing should be pretty interesting."

  Emmett nodded, glancing around the room as the men chatted quietly, settling into their new reality. Lucas's tone softened.

  "You boys know what you're doing though. Like Mcarthy said. This wont be easy, but ya'll know what you're doing."

  Emmett didn’t look at him, but he gave a small nod. "Yep."

  Lucas checked his watch. "I’m gonna close my eyes for a bit. You and the others should do the same. We’ve got a few days before y’all ship out."

  Emmett looked down at the last stub of his cigarette and flicked it into the ashtray. "Yep. We do."

  Lucas hesitated like he had more to say, but in the end, he just nodded and turned to the door, waving a hand behind him without looking back.

  Emmett dropped his butt and ground out the cigarette under his heel, pulled another from his coat, and lit it with a steady hand. He took a drag and exhaled slowly.

  "Hunting werewolves," he muttered to himself, eyes scanning the quiet murmur of the group. "Who’d have thought."

  Four days later, the men were gathered on the tarmac, bundled and ready. Each one wore layered flight gear over their uniforms. Parachutes, cold-weather jackets, floatation vests, helmets, and gloves. Their heavier weapons and combat kit were packed for later retrieval.

  They sat under a canvas dry cover beside the runway. The morning cold was bitter and sharp, a wind slicing through the open expanse of RAF Tempsford. The sky above was iron-grey, and the breath of every man hung in the air like steam from a boiler. A nearby C-47 Skytrain idled, its engines coughing now and again like a smoker clearing his lungs.

  Colonel McCarthy stood with his hands folded, flanked by two aides. Lucas Halloway stood off to the side, coat collar up against the wind, his gloved hands shoved into his pockets.

  McCarthy’s eyes swept across the group like a drill instructor inspecting raw recruits. "You've got a seven-hour flight ahead of you. Hopefully, you boys had the good sense to use the john before gearing up."

  That earned a few laughs.

  Lucas took a step forward, holding up a folded newspaper. He slipped into a mock radio announcer's voice. "Forecast for today's flight, courtesy of the Royal Observer Corps. Low cloud cover, spotty visibility over the Channel, light turbulence expected over France, and clear skies down south. Temperature at altitude will hover around negative fifteen Celsius. Bundle up, gentlemen."

  He folded the paper and tucked it into his jacket. "When this is all over and you're back in London, first round’s on me. You have my word."

  That got a few cheers and hoots from the group.

  One of the aircrew jogged up, saluting sharply. "Aircraft’s ready, sir."

  McCarthy nodded. "Thank you, Sergeant."

  He turned back to the men. "Listen up. You’ll fly to Naples first. Refuel there. Stretch your legs. Then it’s a direct hop to Poland. You’ll be escorted by a pair of P-51 Mustangs as far as the Carpathians. After that, you’re on your own until touchdown. We’ve coordinated with the Soviets. Your landing zone’s been cleared."

  He paused and looked them all in the eye. "Operation Trapper is a go, gentlemen. On your feet."

  Emmett already standing, reached down and helped a few of the others to their feet, the weight of their gear making it awkward. One by one, the team lined up.

  Colonel McCarthy shook hands with each man as they passed, followed by Lucas who gave each a firm nod or word of encouragement.

  As the last of the men approached the ramp, Emmett lingered at the base, watching them board. Lucas jogged up beside him, patting his shoulder. “I’ll see you boys back here. Godspeed, Lieutenant.”

  Emmett gripped his hand firmly, giving a nod. “Thanks, Lucas.”

  Lucas clapped him once on the shoulder and gestured to the waiting aircraft. “Enjoy the flight.”

  With a low grunt, Emmett turned and climbed up the ramp, stepping into the narrow confines of the C-47. He sank onto the hard bench near the door, the chill of the fuselage seeping through his layers as he leaned his helmeted head back against the cold metal skin. His eye drifted shut for a moment, the drone of the engines filling his ears.

  The hunt was on.