15

The morning after smuggling her aunt Christina out of the hospital felt like the calm before a storm, the kind that sneaks up on you while you’re sitting in a deck chair, thinking everything’s fine until the wind knocks your Martini and soda off the table. Leila had slept about as well as a guilty conscience in a cheap motel. Now, sitting at the café, she waited for Linda Stern, the sharpest reporter on this side of the Alps.

Linda breezed in like she owned the joint, her leather jacket creaking, sunglasses low on her nose despite the clouds outside. She was all business, but there was always that edge of mischief about her, like she was permanently one bad idea away from pulling a fast one. She slid into the chair across from Leila, didn’t even bother with the pleasantries.

“So,” she said, her voice like whiskey poured over gravel. “What’ve you got for me this time, kid? And don’t tell me it’s a knitting club you want me to expose.”

Leila smirked. “Knitting club? Try a cult, Linda. A real charming one. The Rulers, they call themselves. And they’ve been making moves.”

Linda’s eyebrows lifted just a fraction. That was a lot for her. “I’ve heard whispers. Not the kind of folks you’d want to cross. You crossed them?”

“More like they crossed me. And now they’re trying to tie up loose ends.”

Linda leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowing. “Let me guess, Christina’s a loose end.”

“That’s the short version. But it gets better. You ever hear of a guy in a mustard jacket?Remember? I told you about the thread I found in that spooky place I visited.”

“Sounds like some condiment salesman, but sure, I was listening. What about him?”

Leila leaned forward, lowering her voice. “He’s been lurking around the hospital, making sure Christina never makes it out. Hiding in a ward closet, slipping around like a snake in that damn mustard-colored gear.”

Linda clicked her tongue, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Mustard man in the closet, huh? Sounds like the start of a bad joke.”

“Yeah, well, the punchline’s a killer,” Leila said, her eyes flashing with frustration. “I need to know what he’s after. I need to know who he’s working for.”

Linda’s smirk faded, replaced by the hard edge that made her one of the best in the business. “Alright, I’ll bite. You got a plan, or are we winging it like usual?”

Leila sat back, a small grin creeping up on her lips. “I was hoping you could do your thing, maybe pretend to be a patient. I’ve still got connections in that hospital, and you’ve got that face that could pass for someone’s confused aunt in a nightgown.”

Linda snorted. “You’re a riot, you know that?” She crossed her arms, sizing Leila up. “But alright. What’s in it for me?”

“Besides the exclusive on taking down a centuries-old cult? You get to steal something from mustard man.”

Now she had Linda’s full attention.

“Steal something?” Linda’s grin was back, and this time it was wicked. “What are we talking about? His dignity? His lunch money?”

“A club card,” Leila said. “The kind that grants you access to some real secret meetings. The Rulers, Linda. You want in? This is your ticket.”

Linda whistled low, glancing around the café like she was already picturing herself waltzing into one of those meetings. “Alright, kid. You’ve got yourself a deal.”

They spent the next half hour hashing out the plan. It wasn’t complicated, but it wasn’t simple either. Linda would sneak into the ward, do her best frazzled-patient routine, and distract mustard man while Leila’s contacts got her the rest of the intel. If they were lucky, they’d get more than just a club card. If they weren’t… well, they’d cross that bridge when they fell off it.

An hour later, Leila found herself lurking in the hospital parking lot, waiting for Linda’s signal. It felt like a scene out of a low-budget movie, but the stakes were very real. Christina was safe, for now, tucked away at the cabin with sweet Philipino nurse keeping an eye on her. But this mustard-jacketed creep—he was the missing piece. If they could figure out his angle, maybe they could put the rest of the puzzle together.

Her phone buzzed. Linda’s message was short and sweet: Showtime.

Leila moved quickly, slipping through the side entrance, blending in with the stream of visitors. The hospital smelled like antiseptic and despair, the usual blend that never failed to put Leila on edge. She made her way up to the ward, where Linda had already put on her show. When Leila peeked through the window, she couldn’t help but smirk.

Linda was in bed, hair in a messy bun, covered in a hideous floral hospital gown that looked two decades too old. She was chatting up one of the nurses, her voice loud and cheery like she’d just stepped off a daytime talk show. Classic diversion.

The real show, though, was happening across the hall.

Mustard man was pacing. From the closet. She wasn’t kidding—he really was hiding in there, like some half-baked burglar waiting for the right moment. Leila watched him through the narrow crack in the door. The guy was twitchy, nervous. He checked his phone every few seconds, muttering to himself. Clearly, something wasn’t going to plan.

Leila waited, her heart ticking like a bomb about to go off. Just then, Linda’s voice rang out, loud enough to turn a few heads in the hallway.

“Excuse me! Nurse, could I get some more water? This pillow feels like it’s made of bricks, by the way. Do you keep the good ones in some kind of secret vault, or is this your standard torture?”

The nurse, clearly exasperated, moved toward Linda, and that’s when Leila saw it—a flash of movement from mustard man. He slipped out of the closet, looking around like a guy who’d lost his keys but knew they were in his pocket. Leila tensed, waiting for the right moment.

He ducked into the room adjacent to Linda’s, rummaging through his coat pocket. She didn’t have much time.

Leila moved fast, slipping into the room behind him. She caught the faint scent of cheap vape and fear. His back was turned to her, and she moved like a shadow, her fingers ghosting over the jacket slung over the chair.

There it was. A card, shiny and black, tucked neatly in an inside pocket. She slipped it out, her heart pounding in her chest. This was it—the key to the Rulers’ secret meetings.

Suddenly, mustard man stiffened. Leila froze, the card burning a hole in her hand.

A man in mustard man turned around.

But Leila was gone. She moved out of the room like a whisper, slipping back into the hallway as if nothing had happened. Linda’s voice was still carrying on, distracting anyone who might have noticed. Leila didn’t even glance back as she made her way to the exit, the card clutched tightly in her hand.

Outside, the cold air hit her like a slap to the face. She took a deep breath, her mind racing.

Linda joined her a minute later, her hospital gown swapped for her regular clothes. “Well?” she asked, her eyes bright with excitement. “Did you get it?”

Leila held up the card, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Got it. This is our way in.”

Linda’s grin widened. “Kid, you’re better than I thought. And trust me, I already thought you were pretty good.”

“Flattery won’t get you out of the mess we’re about to dive into,” Leila said, but she couldn’t help but smirk.

Linda glanced at the card, her eyes narrowing as she read the fine print. “You know, I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“Join the club,” Leila muttered. “But we’re in now, and we’ve got no choice but to play the hand we’ve been dealt.”

Linda pocketed the card, her grin fading into something more serious. “Alright, let’s see how it goes.”

As they walked away from the hospital, Leila couldn’t shake the feeling that the game was getting uglier. But if there was one thing Leila knew, it was this: no matter how twisted the game got, she wasn’t going down without a fight. She glanced at Linda. The weathered reporter looked a bit pale.

Linda Stern wasn’t easily rattled. Years of digging up dirt on people had given her nerves as tough as the soles of her leather boots. But the look in Leila’s eyes had her sitting up straight, the playful smirk fading.

They sat across from each other in a dingy café, where the coffee tasted like it had been brewed during the Great Depression, but it was quiet and, more importantly, anonymous. Leila dropped the black card on the table between them like a poker chip with the highest stakes.

“So! Mustard jacket had this tucked in his coat,” Leila said, voice low, almost casual, but there was a razor-sharp edge beneath. “It’s the key.”

Linda raised an eyebrow. “Key to what?”

Leila leaned back, letting the tension build, drawing Linda in like a moth to a flame. “The Rulers. Their next meeting. He was going to this. Now we are. Or, rather, you. Sadly, they know my face.”

Linda let out a slow breath, her eyes narrowing on the card like it might bite. She’d heard of the Rulers. Conspiracy theories, whispered rumors, the kind of shadowy group that made even the most skeptical roll their eyes. But the way Leila was talking, this wasn’t a joke.

“Alright,” Linda said, leaning forward, voice dropping. “Spill it. Who are these Rulers, really? And what does your mustard-jacket friend have to do with them?”

Leila took a sip of her coffee, grimacing at the taste, and then began. “The Rulers are not just some wealthy dudes playing secret society. They’ve been around for centuries, manipulating politics, pulling strings from behind the scenes. Think the Illuminati, but nastier. They’re after an artifact—an old relic that they think holds the key to ultimate power.”

Linda snorted, leaning back. “Aren’t they all? What is it, some ancient necklace? A golden scepter?”

Leila shook her head, her expression darkening. “The King’s Mask. It’s not just a symbol of power. It’s something more. Well, for them, they are an eccentric lot. And the Rulers think if they get their hands on it, they can use it to reset everything—governments, banks, all of it. They believe they can bring down democracies everywhere in one night.”

Linda felt a tingle of excitement crawling down her spine. This wasn’t the first time she’d heard about lunatics with a God complex, but this felt different. More grounded.

“And your aunt? Christina? What’s her connection?” Linda asked.

“She stumbled on something,” Leila said, her voice tight. “Something she wasn’t supposed to know. I think she found out about that artifact thing and now they want her silenced. Or maybe she has to do something with it. She is still not fully recovered, Linda.”

Linda shook her head, a dry chuckle escaping her lips. “Jesus, kid. You sure know how to pick your enemies.” She tapped the card with her finger, eyes flicking up to meet Leila’s. “So, what’s the plan? We crash their little club meeting and ask them nicely to stop with the world domination?”

Leila didn’t smile. “No. We go in, and we find out exactly what they’re planning. We take that information, and we expose them. But we need to be smart. They’ll be expecting someone. They won’t be expecting us.”

Linda was silent for a moment, her mind working through the details, the risks. Finally, she nodded. “Alright. But you’re not telling me everything. What’s the story with this Nazi business?”

Leila exhaled slowly, and her eyes went distant, like she was seeing something that wasn’t there. And then, she began, she spilled out everything she discovered written on the margins of the antique furniture book. A cold-hearted account, or maybe a confession.

It was 1944. Nazi Germany was crumbling, the war turning against them, but deep within the country, in a forgotten stretch of forest, an SS officer named Sturmbannführer Erich Klein was leading a small convoy of trucks toward a heavily guarded estate.

The night was black, the trees looming like silent witnesses to whatever sins were about to unfold. The trucks rumbled up to the gates, and a guard, his limp heavy from an old wound, stepped forward, lantern flickering weakly in his hand.

Klein, all sharp lines and cruel eyes beneath his peaked cap, didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Open the gate,” he snapped, waving a signed order in front of the man’s face like it was holy scripture. The guard squinted at it, recognizing the signature. His face went pale, and he fumbled with the locks.

Behind Klein, soldiers jumped down from the trucks, dragging out prisoners—men in ragged clothes, hollow-eyed, shuffling like the walking dead. These were the expendables, worked to the bone and now destined for something worse.

“Unload the crates,” Klein barked. The prisoners moved in sluggish, broken movements, pulling heavy wooden boxes from the trucks, stacking them neatly by the gate. The soldiers watched over them, rifles in hand, their young faces tense. Most of them were barely out of the Hitler Youth, green around the gills, not yet hardened by the horrors of the war.

Klein’s cold eyes scanned the darkness as he lit a cigarette. He didn’t care for the men he led or the prisoners who were little more than tools. He was here for one reason—the Mask.

In one of those crates, hidden among useless relics and artifacts plundered from across Europe, was the King’s Mask. A piece of history so old, it was said to have been worn by rulers who thought themselves gods. And now, with Germany on the brink of collapse, Klein knew that whoever held the Mask held the future. The legend said so, and the legends never fib, not on things like that.

The rumble of planes overhead broke the stillness of the night, bombs falling somewhere to the west. The sound of distant explosions rolled across the landscape, but Klein barely flinched. War was just noise now, background music to the real business at hand.

He glanced at his watch, then turned to the guard. “Show them where to take the crates.”

The guard hesitated, his hand trembling on the lantern. “But, Herr Sturmbannführer, what is in these boxes? Why so much secrecy?”

Klein’s smile was thin, more of a threat than a comfort. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

The guard swallowed hard and limped toward the gate, leading the prisoners and soldiers deeper into the mountain forest. Klein stayed behind, watching the trucks, his cigarette burning low.

Half an hour later, the sound of machine-gun fire echoed from the trees, followed by the sharp crack of single shots. Klein’s smile widened. The prisoners were dead, and the soldiers had done their job. No witnesses. No loose ends.

But as the young soldiers returned, led by Feldwebel Schultz, Klein saw something in their eyes—hesitation, fear. They were still boys, after all, not yet used to the brutal efficiency of death.

“Well done, Schultz,” Klein said, clapping a gloved hand on the sergeant’s shoulder. “You’ve carried out your orders perfectly.”

Schultz nodded stiffly, his eyes distant. “Yes, Herr Sturmbannführer. All witnesses… destroyed.”

Klein’s eyes flickered with amusement. He liked Schultz—good soldier, followed orders without question. But that was about to change.

“Witnesses, Schultz,” Klein said softly, almost regretfully. “We can’t have any witnesses.”

Schultz blinked, confusion crossing his face. “Herr Sturmbannführer?”

Klein took a step back, drawing his pistol. “The Motherland requires sacrifice, Schultz. Even from its best men.”

Before Schultz could react, Klein fired. The bullet hit Schultz square between the eyes, and he crumpled to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. The other soldiers stood frozen, their faces pale, shock rippling through the ranks.

Klein turned the gun on them, his face cold as ice. “You’ve served well. But the Motherland has no room for witnesses.”

Two more shots rang out in the cold night, and the soldiers fell. The forest swallowed their bodies, the trees indifferent to the blood soaking into the earth.

Klein holstered his pistol, a grim satisfaction settling over him. He approached the crates, his hands steady as he pried one open. Inside, nestled among gold and jewels, was the King’s Mask.

It was beautiful. Ancient. Deadly. A smile crept over Klein’s face as he lifted it from the crate, its surface gleaming in the faint light. This was power. This was the future.

But as he held it, a shadow moved behind him.

The old guard, the one with the limp, had seen everything. He had watched Klein execute his own men, and now he crept forward, his breath shallow, his hand shaking as it reached for the gun at his belt.

Klein didn’t notice until it was too late.

A single shot rang out, and Klein staggered forward, the Mask slipping from his fingers as he collapsed to the ground. The guard stood over him, breathing heavily, his face twisted with a mixture of hatred and determination.

Klein’s eyes flickered, his hand reaching for the Mask one last time. But the guard kicked it away, his voice trembling as he spoke.

“No more witnesses,” the guard muttered, echoing Klein’s own words.

He turned and limped back into the mountains, leaving Klein’s body lying in the dirt, the Mask gleaming beside him like a cursed relic from a forgotten time.

Leila’s voice trailed off, the café falling into an uneasy silence. Linda stared at her, the horror of the story hanging between them like smoke after a gunshot.

“So,” Linda said, her voice carefully controlled. “This Mask—it’s still out there?”

Leila nodded. “And the Rulers think they can use it to do what Klein never could. They want to finish what the Nazis started.”

Linda leaned back in her chair, a cold smile tugging at her lips. “Well, isn’t that a cheerful thought?”

Leila tapped the card on the table. “We have to get on with our plan. Find out where the Mask is. Stop them before they can use it. Easy enough, huh?”

Linda’s eyes gleamed with that dangerous, reckless light that had gotten her in trouble more times than she could count. “Looks like we’re going to a meeting then, aren’t we?”

Leila smiled grimly. “Yeah. Let’s crash their little party.”

They stood, leaving the café behind as the dark clouds gathered overhead.