Nimrod, the so-called “mask killer”, was also nearby, trying in vain to keep his face neutral. The man had been tasked with hunting down and killing vigilantes in the early days but now his work was nearly at his end — and his usefulness with it. Mr. Death was sure that Nimrod was already plotting his escape but it wouldn’t do him any good. In fact, Nimrod’s death had already been arranged. By the morning, he’d be dead, a victim of the slow-acting poison he’d ingested at dinner.
Mr. Death had no silly notions that his own value was any higher than Nimrod’s, not that such things had played a role in his decision to help The Peregrine. He was, as he’d intimated, simply bored with the new world in which he’d found himself. Victories were only as sweet as the effort put forth to achieve them and with their unholy allies, The Reich had steamrolled over any and all who had opposed them.
And now what? The slow destruction of humanity? Oh, sure, there might be a few ghoulish chuckles to be had along the way but Mr. Death craved more. He wanted adventure, intrigue and spicy encounters. All three were going to be increasingly rare as The Mother of Pus and her ilk increased their control.
A ripple went through the crowd as the condemned appeared, being led out by a squadron of SS soldiers. Military music blared and Mr. Death looked closely at The Peregrine, wondering if the man was as calm as he appeared. If Max Davies was trembling at the thought of his demise, he gave no sign of it. Outwardly, he remained defiant, looking at the faces of his captors as if marking each of them for eventual vengeance.
Mr. Death knew no one had bothered to search the prisoner. Why should they, after all? He’d been searched multiple times in recent days and there was no way for him to have gotten anything new. The glove was, no doubt, secreted away in the hero’s jacket. How he’d utilize it, Mr. Death wasn’t sure, since the man’s hands were bound behind his back, but he was sure that The Peregrine wouldn’t go quietly into this good night.
He hoped not, anyway.
The Peregrine was brought before the assembled crowd and held in place for a moment while a litany of his crimes were read aloud. The Füehrer and his advisors were smiling and savoring the moment but Mr. Death hoped that their good humor would be fouled soon enough.
When the recitation of charges was complete, The Peregrine was asked if he wished to admit to his crimes and ask for any small favors that might be permitted. It wouldn’t benefit him to plead for mercy, of course, but it was all part of the dog-and-pony show that the Nazis craved.
The Peregrine looked at the faces in the crowd and then spoke in flawless German, repeating each sentence in English so that everyone could hear him. “My only crime is in not doing more for the innocent and the weak. Unlike the Füehrer and the monsters that he serves, I believe that there is more to life than the acquisition of power and the enslavement of others. I believe in the American dream. I believe in freedom and liberty. And I believe that no matter what happens today, the human spirit cannot and will not be broken. Men and women will rise up and oppose these dictators and monsters.”
A murmuring went through the crowd and Mr. Death had to admit to himself that he felt it, too — a stirring deep down in the black pit of his soul. Max Davies was an inspiration, even to those who should have been his mortal enemy.
He wondered if that was why The Peregrine was still alive, that there was something innately different about him and his fellow survivors. Were Lazarus Gray, Gravedigger and The Peregrine cut from a different cloth, even from other vigilantes?
The world would be a darker place when they were gone.
Silence fell once more as The Füehrer rose from his seat. He opened his mouth and everyone, including Mr. Death, leaned forward, eager to hear what he would say before condemning the masked man to death.
What those words would have been, no one would ever get the chance to know.
Mr. Death would later believe that he had heard the crossbow bolt whistling through the air in the seconds before it pierced Hitler’s throat. Whether or not that was true, the fact was that one of the most evil men in history was struck down before the eyes of hundreds of people. Blood spurted from the wound, splashing straight onto Himmler’s shocked face, and screams immediately rang out into the night.
The one responsible for Hitler’s death made her presence known quickly enough. Gravedigger jumped from the shadows, her blade flashing in the floodlights as it delivered more death. Soldiers died quickly, the victims of not only her consummate skill but the terrible rage that made her movements all the more impassioned.
Mr. Death sprang to his feet and looked towards The Peregrine. If Gravedigger were here, could Lazarus Gray be far behind?
As if on cue, the broad-shouldered figure of Gray burst onto the wooden platform, knocking aside the guards who had been watching over The Peregrine.
“Do something!” hissed The Mother of Pus. She was glaring at him with a fury that spurred him to action.
“Yes, mother,” he murmured, hoping that she didn’t sense his glee.
He jumped towards Lazarus Gray and The Peregrine, his cloak billowing out behind him. When he landed, he approached cautiously and shouted, “You realize you can’t escape, don’t you? You’re so vastly outnumbered that it’s a miracle you’re not both dead already.”
Lazarus smiled grimly. “I think you’re underestimating how resourceful we can be.”
At just that moment, several nearby buildings, all of which had been retrofitted into Nazi government usage, suddenly exploded. Lazarus and Gravedigger had been hoarding as many homemade explosives as possible, knowing that at some point they would be needed. All during the day they had hidden them near this area, priming them for just the right time.
Debris rained down through the air and the screams grew louder, as panicked spectators began rushing from the scene. In the skies above, horrible bat-winged creatures began to fly into view, summoned from their perches several blocks away.
Lazarus grabbed The Peregrine and led him down a nearby alleyway, hoping that Mr. Death would be too distracted by the explosions to notice which direction they went. “We need to find a way out of here.”
The Peregrine looked at him in surprise. “You didn’t plan an escape route? That’s a pretty essential part of these things!”
“We were more focused on surviving long enough to get you out of there alive.”
“What about Charity?”
“She can handle herself,” Lazarus said, jerking back as he reached the intersection of the alley and the next street. A black sedan roared around and the corner, squealing to a stop in front of them. The driver jumped out, leaving the door open and the engine running.
Lazarus let out a gasp. “You’re alive?”
The Darkling drew his pistols, brandishing one in each hand. “Get down.”
Neither The Peregrine nor Lazarus asked why. They hit the ground, allowing The Darkling to pull the triggers on his automatics. Lazarus glanced behind him, seeing several pursuing SS soldiers felled by the volley.
Mr. Death appeared then, a gleeful cackle emanating from behind his skull-like visage.
“Go,” The Darkling said, moving past the now rising heroes. “I will hold him off while you escape.
“Come with us,” The Peregrine whispered.
“I don’t fear death, my friends. I’ve seen it up close too many times for it to hold any mystery for me.”
Mr. Death, hearing this, touched his chest and stopped. “Death holds no mystery? You wound me! I have some stories that will put a blush on those cheeks! And I do have to say, I love your tailor!”