[b]BANG![/b] One casing hit the ground. One soldier did the same. 

“Vere iz zat coming from?!” cried another German soldier, holding himself back behind a small barricade.

[b]BANG![/b] Another bullet flew and struck the soldier in the chest, neatly threading the needle between the segments of the barricade. 

“It iz unthinkable zat ve vere invaded by ze enemy!” cried another soldier diving for cover. “Ze front line iz so far away!”

The commanding officer, a man of white hair with a monocle wearing a black trench coat with the red armband of the Nazi party, answered as he pulled out binoculars. “Because ve haven’t. Zere iz nobody approaching and ze time between ze shots indicates a singular attacker.”

After scanning for a moment, and another of his soldiers getting shot dead, he put his binoculars away. “Zhey are hidden vell, but zheir general location iz known to me. MEN! AIM ZE ARTILLERY SHELLS!”

Two soldiers rushed behind cover carrying a large shell. They reached the artillery cannon and were about to put it in when their attacker got off another shot. [b]BANG![/b] The bullet struck true, somehow managing to impact the primer of the artillery shell, igniting the powder and setting it off… To disastrous results.

The officer’s monocle fell to the ground as he could only stare at the carnage in utter disbelief. “... By God…” He rushed back into the outpost, adrenaline coursing through his body, switching the “fight or flight” lever [i]firmly[/i] in the “flight” position. Once he rounded the corner he pulled out his sidearm and attempted to calm himself. Now he was out of the line of fire, around the corner and protected by 6 inches of solid steel. No bullet from some lone sniper could penetrate that. All he had to do was stand at the ready for his would-be assassin to step around the corner and he’d have them dead to rights.

[b]BANG![/b]

“AGH!” A bullet ricocheted off the wall and hit him in his gut. It lost a bunch of power and didn’t hit anything vital, but it was [i]still[/i] a bullet injury. He was bleeding badly. Now crawling on the ground, he desperately cried for help. “Herr Doctor! Emergency!” But nobody came. More gunshots could be heard and the cries of men dying were the only company he had as he crawled across the ground in a desperate bid to escape.

“It has to be her…” he wheezed to himself. “It has to be… Schnitter der Seelen! Zhat iz ze only explanation!”

“Iz zhat vhat zhey are calling me?” echoed a woman’s voice, strong, cultured, and attractive (in the right circumstances). “Ze reaper of souls?” she asked, translating the moniker into English.

The officer turned his head, his vision blurring but still able to make out the woman standing before him. It was her, no doubt about it. Reinhilde Amstein, the Austrian noblewoman suspected of murdering her parents in cold blood, the treasonous wench. 

The officer coughed up a small bit of blood, sitting up into a more comfortable position to accept his fate. There was no way he could run from this. “I have no regrets,” he said, evenly as he could. 

“And zhat iz vhy you die tonight,” she answered.

He met her eyes with his own, his determination clearing his vision a bit. “I have only one question before you send me to my maker.” He paused, as did she, curiosity driving her to temporary inaction. “How did zou make zhose shots? How could zou know how to hit me around ze corner, or zhat I vas even zhere? Zhat should ‘ave been impossible.”

She stepped forward, tilting her head down at the man. Would she answer him? Would he even believe her? “Shoot to Thrill. It iz my ability,” she answered simply, stepping her heel into his groin and grinding down on it. She ignored his cries of pain and pulled out her bowie knife. “It iz also vhat vill allow me to make zhis last. Now zhen… Let’s see if I can remove zhis skin vone layer at a time…”

The officer’s cries lasted hours, but eventually died down as he screamed himself hoarse. He would not die until several hours after that.