I never signed up to be a hero. I signed up to kill Nazis. And maybe die trying.

It’s 1941, and London’s burning. The war’s a meat grinder, and the SOE is where they send the ones who don’t fit—criminals, lunatics, and men with nothing left to lose. That’s how I ended up here, standing on the rain-lashed deck of the Maid of Honor, a Swedish trawler that stinks of fish and desperation.

Gubbins called it a mission. Churchill called it necessary. I call it suicide.

Our target: the Duchessa d’Aosta, anchored off Fernando Po. Sink her, and we cut off U-boat resupply. Fail, and we’re ghosts—disavowed, forgotten, or worse.

Next to me, Hayes adjusts his gloves, eyes wide with fear he won’t admit. Lassen checks his knives—again. Alvarez cracks a joke no one laughs at. And Appleyard? He’s already halfway to the edge, muttering about glory and graves.

We’re not a team. Not yet.

But by dawn, we’ll either be legends… or corpses.

The island looms ahead, shrouded in mist. Marjorie’s signal is green. Heron’s inside, waiting. The ships are there. So is Luhr.

I turn to the men.

‘This is it. No rules. No mercy. We go in quiet, we leave loud. Any questions?’

Silence. Then Lassen speaks, cold and clear: ‘What’s the plan if we’re caught?’

I look him in the eye.

‘There is no plan.’