September 22nd.
Warsaw's been under siege for two weeks.
We've held the basement position for three days. Three days of sporadic attacks, artillery bombardment, sniper fire.
Three days of watching a city die block by block.
The Germans haven't pushed hard here—they don't need to. They're patient.
They know Warsaw's running out of time, ammunition, hope.
Jakub's shoulder is healing.
Not well, but enough that he can use the arm without his face going grey. He still can't lift a rifle properly, so he's taken to carrying a pistol and acting as the basement's unofficial tactical advisor.
"German pattern is changing," he says, studying a hand-drawn map spread across a crate.
"Less direct assault. More encirclement. They're squeezing, not punching."
Marek nods. "Cutting us off from each other. Easier to kill us in pieces than all at once."
"Smart."
"Annoying."
I'm cleaning my rifle for the third time today—there's nothing else to do between attacks.
That's when the lookout calls down: "Someone's coming! Fast!"
Everyone moves.
Weapons ready. Positions taken.
Thompson peers through a firing slit. "Single person. Running. Civilian clothes."
"German trick?" Walsh suggests.
"Possibly." Marek moves to the entrance. "Cover me."
We do. Rifles aimed at the approaching figure through every available sight line.
The figure gets closer.
Small, fast, moving with practiced efficiency through rubble that would slow anyone else down.
Not running in panic.
Running with purpose.
"It's Kasia!" Jakub's voice carries relief. "Let her in!"
The barricade shifts.
The figure—Kasia—slips through the gap, breathing hard but not winded.
Young woman, maybe mid-twenties. Dark blonde hair in a practical braid. Green eyes that scan the basement tactically before focusing on faces.
"Jakub." She embraces him briefly, carefully avoiding his injured shoulder. "They said you were dead."
"They were optimistic."
She laughs—short, sharp, genuine.
Then her eyes land on me.
I'm staring.
I realize it half a second too late, but there's something about her that catches my attention like a hook in my chest.
Not just that she's attractive—though she is, in a sharp-featured, dangerous kind of way.
It's the way she moves. Combat-trained grace wrapped in civilian clothes.
Someone who's survived by being faster and smarter than the people trying to kill her.
"Who's the American?" she asks Jakub, still looking at me.
"Rio Castellanos. Volunteer. He's good."
"Good how?"
"Good at not dying. Good at shooting. Good at moving like he's done this before."
"Has he?"
"He says no. I think maybe yes, just doesn't remember."
Jakub gestures between us. "Rio, this is Katarzyna Nowak. Everyone calls her Kasia. She's courier for the resistance. Runs messages between cells."
I nod. "Dangerous work."
"All work is dangerous now."
She moves past me to Marek, pulling papers from inside her jacket.
"Intel from the western sector. German positions, supply routes, weak points in their encirclement."
Marek studies the papers. "Where'd you get this?"
"Better you don't know."
"Fair enough."
He spreads the papers on the crate next to Jakub's map.
"This changes things. If these supply routes are accurate, we might be able to disrupt them. Buy the city more time."
"How much time?" Thompson asks.
"Maybe a few days. Maybe a week." Marek looks up. "It won't save Warsaw. But it'll make the Germans bleed for it."
"Good enough," Jakub says.
Kasia's eyes find me again.
"You're the one who shot Jakub?"
"Technically."
"He was shooting at us," I point out.
"I was defending my position," Jakub corrects.
"Semantics," Kasia says, but she's smiling slightly.
"You patched him up after?"
"Thompson did most of it."
"But you helped."
Not a question. She studies me with an intensity that's unsettling.
"You move well for a volunteer. Where'd you train?"
Jesus. Does everyone ask that question?
"I didn't."
"He just knows things," Jakub offers. "Old soul."
Kasia's expression shifts—something I can't read crossing her face.
"Old soul. Interesting."
She turns back to Marek.
"The intel is time-sensitive. If we're going to hit those supply routes, it needs to be tonight."
"Tonight?" Marek frowns. "That's fast."
"Germans won't wait for us to be ready. Neither should we."
---
The plan comes together quickly.
Not because it's good—it's barely a plan at all—but because there's no time for anything better.
Hit a German supply convoy moving through the northwestern sector.
Small team. Fast strike. Maximum damage.
Steal what we can carry, destroy the rest, disappear before reinforcements arrive.
"Suicide mission," Walsh mutters.
"All missions are suicide missions," Kasia replies.
"This one just has better odds than most."
The team is six people.
Kasia leading, Jakub despite his shoulder, me, Thompson, Walsh, and a Polish fighter named Tomek who knows the route.
Pierre stays behind—someone needs to maintain the basement defense in case we don't come back.
We prep weapons in silence.
Check ammunition. Secure equipment.
The familiar ritual of people preparing to maybe die.
Kasia works next to me, loading magazines with practiced efficiency.
Her hands don't shake. No nervous energy.
Just calm, focused preparation.
"You're staring again," she says without looking up.
"Sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Just be subtle."
Now she looks at me.
"You're wondering if I'm good enough to keep you alive."
"I'm wondering if I'm good enough to keep you alive."
That gets a genuine smile.
"Better answer."
She slides a full magazine into her jacket.
"Jakub says you move like a veteran. That you have instincts you shouldn't have."
"He talks about me a lot?"
"You shot him and then saved his life. Hard to forget that combination."
She pauses.
"He also says you're trustworthy. Jakub doesn't say that about many people."
"What do you say?"
"I say I'll know by the end of tonight."
She stands, slinging her rifle.
"If you're good, we both survive. If you're not..."
She shrugs.
"Well. At least it'll be quick."