We move out at 2130 hours.
The city is quieter at night, but not silent.
Fires burn. Artillery rumbles in the distance.
Occasionally, small arms fire cracks through the dark.
Someone fighting somewhere. Someone dying somewhere.
Hard to tell the difference anymore.
Kasia leads us through streets that barely exist.
Rubble paths between collapsed buildings. Shortcuts through basements and courtyards.
Routes that would be invisible to anyone who didn't know Warsaw intimately.
She moves like water, flowing around obstacles, never hesitating.
The rest of us follow, trying to match her efficiency.
Jakub keeps up despite his shoulder, his knowledge of the city complementing hers.
Thompson and Walsh move with military precision.
Tomek, the Polish fighter, watches our backs with the paranoia of someone who's survived too many ambushes.
I take middle position, rifle ready, eyes scanning constantly.
My body knows this rhythm.
Patrol movement. Tactical spacing. Threat assessment.
Muscle memory from lives I don't remember but that keep me alive anyway.
Kasia notices.
I catch her glancing back, watching how I move, how I clear corners, how I signal without thinking about it.
She doesn't comment.
Just files it away, whatever she's thinking.
---
We reach the ambush point forty minutes later.
It's a street intersection where three roads converge, partially blocked by rubble but still passable for vehicles.
Buildings on both sides provide elevated positions.
Good sight lines. Multiple escape routes.
Not perfect, but nothing in Warsaw is perfect anymore.
Kasia positions us quickly.
"Thompson, Walsh—east building, second floor. Jakub, Tomek—west building, ground level. Rio, you're with me."
"Where?"
"North side. We've got the best angle on the kill zone."
She starts moving, and I follow.
"You any good with grenades?"
"Haven't thrown many."
"But you could if you had to?"
"Yeah."
"Good enough."
We climb through a shattered storefront into what used to be an apartment building.
Stairs intact, surprisingly.
Second floor overlooks the intersection perfectly.
Kasia sets up near a window, rifle ready.
I take position next to her, close enough to coordinate, far enough to have independent firing lanes.
"Convoy should be here in twenty minutes," she says, checking her watch.
"Two trucks, maybe three. Infantry escort, maybe a dozen soldiers. We hit the lead truck first, block the road. Then hammer the rest while they're confused."
"Simple."
"Simple is good. Complicated gets people killed."
We wait.
The city breathes around us.
Distant sounds of dying. The ever-present smoke smell. The occasional crack of something collapsing.
Kasia breaks the silence.
"Jakub said you're from America. New Mexico?"
"Yeah."
"Long way from home."
"So are you. This isn't your war either."
"This absolutely is my war."
Her voice hardens.
"This absolutely is my war." Her voice hardens. "Germans invaded my country. Killed my neighbors. Destroyed my city. How is it not my war?"
"I meant—" I stop. Restart. "I meant you could've left. Evacuated. You chose to stay."
"Because someone has to."
She glances at me.
"Why'd you come? America isn't at war. You didn't have to be here."
The fragments pulse.
The pull I can't explain. The certainty that I'm supposed to be here even if I don't know why.
"I don't know," I admit. "Something made me come. Like I was supposed to."
"Old soul," she says. "Like Jakub said."
"You believe that?"
"I believe some people are born knowing things they shouldn't. My grandmother was like that. Could tell you things about people just by looking at them. Said souls remember even when minds forget."
She adjusts her rifle scope.
"Maybe you're like that."
"Maybe."
"Or maybe you're just crazy."
But she's smiling slightly.
"Either way, you're here now. Might as well make it count."
---
The convoy arrives twelve minutes late.
Two trucks, both loaded with supplies.
Infantry escort—Thompson was right, about a dozen soldiers.
They're alert but not paranoid, moving through what they think is secured territory.
Kasia's hand signals: Wait. Wait. Wait.
The lead truck enters the kill zone.
Now.
Thompson and Walsh open fire from the east.
Controlled bursts, hitting the lead truck's engine block and tires.
The truck lurches, slews sideways, blocks the road.
The German infantry scatters, seeking cover, returning fire.
Jakub and Tomek engage from the west, catching soldiers in crossfire.
Kasia sights carefully.
Fires.
A German soldier drops.
I pick targets.
Fire. Chamber another round. Fire.
The rifle kicks familiar against my shoulder, the rhythm automatic.
See threat, eliminate threat, next target.
The second truck tries to reverse.
Kasia throws a grenade—perfect arc, perfect timing.
It lands in the truck bed.
The explosion is beautiful and terrible.
The truck erupts, supplies scattering, metal shrapnel cutting down nearby soldiers.
The Germans are pinned.
Half their force dead or wounded in seconds.
The rest trying to find cover that doesn't exist, return fire at muzzle flashes they can barely see.
It's not a fair fight.
War isn't fair.
---
The battle lasts maybe two minutes.
When it's over, twelve German soldiers are dead.
One managed to escape into the darkness—Tomek tried to track him but lost him in rubble.
The rest are casualties or corpses.
We move fast.
Grab what we can from the trucks.
Ammunition. Medical supplies. Food rations.
Leave the bodies. No time for anything else.
"Two minutes," Kasia says, checking her watch. "Reinforcements will be here in five if they heard the explosion."
We load up.
Jakub finds a crate of grenades—scores big.
Thompson grabs ammunition boxes.
I take medical supplies and whatever food I can carry.
"Move!" Kasia orders.
We disappear into the rubble, following a route she's already planned.
Behind us, the burning trucks light up the intersection like a beacon.
We're three blocks away when we hear German voices.
Reinforcements arriving at the ambush site, shouting orders, discovering their dead.
But we're already gone.