Chasing Shadows 11: Six Underground

Escaping the Past, Racing Against Fate

Vienna, Austria, September 1999

Trailing behind them, weaving through the alleys behind Rainergasse, I stayed close enough to see but far enough to remain unnoticed. Viktor and Hannah Rolfe moved through the midday crowd with ease, their footsteps light, their conversation a quiet hum against the noise of the city. They didn’t look over their shoulders. Didn’t check the reflections in the glass storefronts they passed.

That was a mistake.

They crossed into Rudolf Sallinger Park, an oasis of green tucked between the gray stone of Vienna’s historic core. Children clambered over the playground, their laughter ringing through the crisp September air, and elderly men sat hunched on benches, tossing breadcrumbs to the pigeons at their feet. The Rolfes moved with unhurried ease, their pace the same as it had been every other day I had tracked them.

Routine. Predictable. Two things that made my job easier.

For the past week, I had mapped their schedule—the route from Viktor’s office at the Austrian Defense Ministry to Hannah’s art gallery, the coffee shop where she lingered in the mornings, the bar where he stopped after work. I knew the alleys, the blind spots, the places where no one would look twice if a shadow stepped off the curb and never returned.

Some contracts had stipulations—clients with an agenda who wanted their message to be seen. Public executions, bodies left to make a point. Others wanted quiet deaths. Clean. Untraceable.

This one came with no such instructions. The method was my choice.

A knife in the dark or a bullet from a distance. A quiet disappearance, their bodies never found. A simple car accident, the type no one would question.

I had weighed the options. Chosen the time. The place. By nightfall, they would be dead, and I would be on to the next job.

But fate had a cruel sense of humor.

The Rolfes neared the edge of the park, turning onto a quiet, tree-lined street where townhouses stood in orderly rows, their facades pristine, their doorsteps swept clean.

I followed, hands tucked into the pockets of my jacket, the cool metal of my weapon pressing against my ribs. My gaze flicked forward, locking onto the couple just as Viktor reached into his pocket, Hannah glancing toward the curb—

A school bus pulled up.

The door folded open. Two girls spilled out, their matching braids bouncing, school uniforms crisp. They were laughing, shouting something in German, their voices bright, unburdened.

I kept walking, passing just behind them, my pace steady. Viktor and Hannah turned toward the children, arms open, catching them in a mess of hugs and laughter.

I should have kept moving.

I should have focused on the job.

But my head turned—just slightly, just enough—and I saw them. Not Viktor’s daughters. Me.

Running through the sunlit dirt roads of Lubango, feet bare, hair wild, my father standing in the doorway of our small home, arms open, waiting to catch me. The last memory I had of him.

Before they came. Before the orders came down, before they sent him and my mother to the border. Before the artillery fire.

Before I became an orphan. And now, I was about to do the same to those two girls.

The weight of my weapon pressed against me, heavier than it had ever been before. My steps faltered—just slightly, just for a second—but it was enough. I walked past, my heartbeat drumming against my ribs, my breath steady but shallow. I didn’t stop, didn’t turn back, but something had shifted. For the first time in years, I hesitated.

And that hesitation would change everything.

Vienna glowed at night, the street lamps casting long shadows against the cobblestones, the scent of roasting chestnuts filling the air. But I wasn’t looking at the city.

I was staring at the ceiling of my rented flat, cigarette smoke curling toward the cracked plaster, the ghosts of the past pressing against my ribs. Viktor Rolfe’s name was still in my ledger. A job left undone. The client would expect results. No completion meant no payment. And in my world, failure had consequences.

But for the first time, I didn’t care about consequences.

I thought of those girls, the way they had run to their father, the way his hands had settled on their backs, protective, warm. I thought of the way my father had smelled of earth and woodsmoke, the way my mother’s voice had curled around my name, soft and full of love.

I could walk away.

I should walk away.

But if I left this contract unfinished, it wouldn’t be enough. The client would find someone else—someone who wouldn’t hesitate. Someone who wouldn’t care about two little girls with matching braids.

That was something I could not allow.

So I found another way.

Rossauer Barracks was an imposing fortress, its stone facade weathered by time, housing Austria’s Defense Ministry like a relic of war. The alarm rang out at precisely 9:42 a.m.

Emergency evacuation. Fire drill. The kind of chaos that demanded immediate action, forced protocol to take precedence over everything else.

Viktor Rolfe stood in his office, briefing Austria’s General Chief of Staff, David Vogel, when the klaxons began to wail.

Confusion rippled through the Ministry. Offices emptied, halls flooded with bodies moving in controlled urgency.

A perfect moment. In another life, I would have used it.

A well-placed shot in the crowd. A quiet moment in the chaos. The opportunity was there. But I let it slip through my fingers.

Instead, I watched from a distance, unseen, as Viktor Rolfe stepped onto the street, shielding his eyes against the sun, his body language taut but calm. He had no idea.

By the time he went home that night, the contract was erased. The files deleted. The records burned. Someone else could have taken my place. Could have done what I wouldn’t.

But now I would ensure that wouldn’t happen. The apartment was barely livable—peeling wallpaper curling like dead leaves at the corners, a radiator that clanked and sputtered as if it were coughing up its last breath. The scent of old cigarettes and mildew was woven into the fabric of the place, clinging to the walls, the floors, even the thin mattress in the corner where I had spent the last few nights waiting, watching. But it served its purpose.

I leaned into the narrow space between the window frame and the radiator, my body pressed against the cool metal as I settled my rifle on the sill. The weight of it was steady, familiar, like an extension of myself. The barrel rested just beyond the glass, perfectly aligned with my sightline, giving me an uninterrupted view of the Rossauer Barracks across Türkenstraße. Viktor Rolfe’s fortress.

I had already done the work—affixed the silencer, adjusted for wind conditions, scouted the rooftops and windows for any lurking shadows, any sign of a rival administrator looking to claim my contract before I could. But there were none. This one was mine alone. Through the scope, I zeroed in on a spot just outside the Rossauer’s doors. That was where it would happen. The place where Viktor Rolfe was meant to fall, where his life was supposed to end in a clean, precise shot. At least, that’s what they needed to believe. I reached for the radio transmitter resting beside me on the floor, my fingers brushing against the cold metal before flipping the switch. A heartbeat later, the fire alarm blared.

A sharp, urgent wail, ricocheting off the stone walls of the barracks, sending ripples of confusion through the men inside. It was deafening even from this distance, vibrating through the air like a physical force.

I had tested the system a few nights ago, sneaking out into the cold, watching the slow-motion scramble of the overnight staff as they evacuated the building with sluggish efficiency. Even with the skeleton crew, the Rossauer had taken three minutes and forty-five seconds to clear. Now, in the middle of the day? I adjusted my estimate. Three minutes, fifty seconds.

That meant I had just over three minutes to take the shot.

Three minutes to make them believe Viktor Rolfe was dead.

Three minutes to vanish before anyone could think to look for me.

I inhaled deeply, letting the sound of the alarm settle into the background, timing my breathing to the steady pulse of the world outside. I had done this more times than I could count.

And yet, this time, it was different. Because I wasn’t going to pull the trigger.

I had spent days convincing myself that my hesitation didn’t matter—that sparing Viktor Rolfe was an act of practicality, not sentiment. That it didn’t mean anything.

I steadied my rifle against the windowsill, my finger hovering over the trigger as I watched the heavy steel doors of the Rossauer fly open. The alarm still shrieked through the air, its mechanical wail bouncing off the stone buildings that lined Türkenstraße. A sea of people flooded out, their movements brisk but not yet frantic—years of government conditioning still held them in check, even as uncertainty crept in. They thought it was a drill, a false alarm. Their measured steps betrayed them, revealing a belief that order still reigned. They were wrong.

Through the scope, I tracked my target. Vogel. He moved with the effortless confidence of a man who had never known true fear. The kind of bureaucrat who had built a career off of pushing papers that dictated life and death for others while he remained untouched. Men like him never considered that one day, the violence they sanctioned might come for them instead. He strode across the pavement, his posture rigid, his head held high even as the crowd around him murmured in growing unease. Arrogance made men predictable. And predictability got them killed.

I exhaled slowly, feeling the rise and fall of my chest as I adjusted for wind. A lifetime of training dictated my every move—the placement of my feet, the tightening of my grip, the way my heart slowed, steady and precise. My finger tightened on the trigger.

The rifle bucked against my shoulder, the familiar recoil grounding me even as chaos erupted below. Vogel’s head didn’t just snap back—it shattered. The impact turned his skull into a mist of red, a grotesque bloom that spread outward in thick, splattering streaks. His body went slack instantly, the arrogance that once carried him through life gone in a fraction of a second. He dropped mid-stride, a marionette with its strings violently cut, his knees folding as he hit the pavement in a lifeless heap. Blood spattered in every direction including onto Rolfe.

For a moment, he just stood there, stiff, his body not yet registering what had happened. The warm droplets dotted his suit, his hands, his face. And then, realization struck. His entire frame recoiled, a sharp inhale sucking through his lungs before his legs gave out beneath him. He crumpled onto the concrete, hands flying to the top of his head in a primal act of self-preservation. I kept my scope trained on him, watching the way his chest heaved, his fingers gripping at his scalp as if he could make himself smaller, less visible as if that would save him.

The crowd was screaming now. The momentary pause before panic had shattered, and the employees of the Rossauer scrambled in every direction, desperate to escape whatever unseen sniper had just taken out their superior in broad daylight. Their carefully rehearsed evacuation had dissolved into chaos. Rolfe wasn’t running, though. He was still curled on the pavement, paralyzed by the shock of being so close to death.

I fired again. The first bullet hit the sidewalk just inches from his skull, concrete splintering on impact, shards exploding outward. The second shot cracked the pavement beside his hand, sending tiny chips of rock and dust flying. Rolfe flinched violently, his breath a choked gasp as he scrambled backward, hands clawing at the ground for traction. He moved on instinct first, a desperate, animalistic scramble—before his legs finally obeyed and he was up, staggering into a run. Not graceful. Not planned. Pure, blind terror. I scared him into running for his life, a life I spared, possibly a the cost of my own.

I let him go. I pulled back from the scope, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension that had settled there. The rifle felt solid in my grip, a tool that had done exactly what it was meant to do. My pulse remained steady, my breathing even. The mission was complete.

Vogel was dead. Rolfe was alive. But he wouldn’t feel like it. Fear had a way of burrowing into a man’s bones, weaving itself into his very existence. It was a shadow that never left, a weight that sat heavy in the chest, pressing against the lungs, making every breath feel like it had to be earned. I had seen it before, in men who had crossed the wrong people, in men who had thought themselves untouchable. And I had given it to him.

I had spared his life, but I had taken something far greater. His certainty. His safety. And fear? That would follow him long after I was gone.

And with that, I stepped back from the window, dismantling my rifle in smooth, practiced motions. The fire alarm still howled, the sounds of a city responding to a phantom threat rising up around me.

I had minutes—maybe less—before someone thought to check this building, before security locked down the entire district. But I was already gone.

As soon as I was certain I hadn’t been seen from my perch, I immediately began dismantling my rifle, working quickly, my hands steady despite the adrenaline humming beneath my skin. The rifle came apart in smooth, efficient pieces, each component fitting neatly into the case like a puzzle only I knew how to solve. The final click of the latches snapping shut sent a ripple of finality through me.

I slung the case over my shoulder and exhaled slowly, steadying myself. The air outside smelled of exhaust and the faint, lingering dampness of Vienna’s early autumn. It should have been refreshing, but I barely registered it over the distant wail of sirens converging on the Rossauer Barracks. Authorities would be swarming the area in minutes, but I was already moving, slipping down the side streets, vanishing into the alleys of Rossau like a ghost.

I kept my stride purposeful, neither too fast nor too slow, blending in with the midday crowd of bureaucrats and students, tourists and shopkeepers. I let my gaze flick from storefronts to passing faces, clocking potential threats, but no one looked twice at me. Just another woman, just another day in Vienna.

My path took me toward Innere Stadt, the old heart of the city. Its dense, winding streets had been built for another time, another pace, but they served me well. The cobblestones had been worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, yet even now, in the midst of the modern world, this part of Vienna held a quiet, secretive quality—an air of history that clung to its walls.

Hannah Rolfe’s art gallery was tucked within these streets, a sterile, whitewashed sanctuary in a city of baroque facades. A place meant for people who pretended to understand art while sipping overpriced wine. I had little interest in her gallery, but I knew it was my next destination.

Then, that prickling at the base of my spine—the unmistakable sensation of being watched.

I didn’t react. I kept walking, kept my head angled naturally, but my senses sharpened, my peripheral vision scanning for movement. And there he was. A shadow moving in sync with mine.

He was careful. Too careful. The way he wove through the side alleys, the measured way he adjusted his pace—it was deliberate. He wasn’t just walking in the same direction by coincidence. He was following me.

I reached up, my fingers grazing my hair as if adjusting my bun, but in reality, I was pulling a pin free. The cold metal felt reassuring between my fingers. With a subtle twist, I removed the tip, exposing the fine, near-invisible needle beneath.

He wasn’t far now.

I stumbled—deliberately—catching my foot on the uneven cobblestones. I pitched forward, colliding into him. The impact sent me tumbling, my case shifting on my shoulder. He startled, reacting instinctively, his hands shooting out to steady me.

“Are you alright?” His voice was smooth, his accent unplaceable.

I let out a flustered laugh, playing the part. “I’m fine. So clumsy today.”

As he helped me up, I moved quickly. The needle slipped into the soft skin just beneath his clavicle. It was so fine, so precise, he barely registered the puncture.

The toxin would work fast, but not immediately. And it wouldn’t kill him. I just needed to slow him down.

“Thank you,” I said, brushing myself off. “Really, I’m fine.”

He nodded, already dismissing me, already forgetting.

But I watched him from the corner of my eye as we continued toward the gallery. His steps grew heavier. His breathing shallower. The flush in his cheeks faded to a pallid hue. He was still standing, still moving, but he wouldn’t be for long.

I stepped through the doors of the gallery just ahead of him. The brightness of the space was almost jarring. Stark white walls, polished floors, framed paintings that meant nothing to me. Hannah Rolfe was at the back, unpacking a crate, her movements methodical. She looked up as we entered, her expression shifting from polite recognition to something closer to confusion.

Beside me, the man reached inside his suit jacket.

“Hannah, duck!”

The words left my lips as my gun was already in my hand. I swiveled, pivoting on instinct, my pistol leveled at the man’s temple.

I pulled the trigger.

The shot cracked through the pristine quiet of the gallery. The bullet tore through his skull, his head snapping back as a spray of blood splattered across the white walls. He crumpled, dead before he hit the ground and I stood before a horrifying, stark, tableau of blood, death and terror.

Hannah screamed. Not just a startled yelp, but a raw, unrestrained wail of shock. She scrambled backward, nearly tripping, her hands clawing for something to steady herself. Her face was white, her eyes wide with horror.

I stepped forward, my voice calm, measured. “Hannah, it’s okay.”

She didn’t look at me like I was her savior. She looked at me like I was a monster.

“He could have killed me,” she whispered, her breath hitching. “You saved me.”

I sighed, my grip on the gun loosening. “Someone very powerful hired me to kill you and your husband today.”

She recoiled, her body locking up with terror. “My Viktor!”

“He’s alive,” I assured her. “I was supposed to kill him. And you. But I didn’t.” I nudged the bloodied corpse with my boot. “This man was sent to finish the job when I didn’t. That’s why he was here.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks, her voice barely above a whisper. “Our daughters?”

I held her gaze. “They’re safe.”

The doors burst open again, and Viktor Rolfe rushed in, his suit disheveled, his face drawn tight with fear. His arms were around Hannah in an instant, gripping her like he might lose her if he let go. Then he saw the body.

His breath came in sharp, shallow bursts. He swore, a string of frantic German slipping from his lips as his grip on Hannah tightened.

“Someone wants you dead,” I repeated.

Viktor’s gaze snapped to mine, filled with something between fury and desperation. “Who?”

I met his eyes, steady, unwavering. “It’s not my place to ask.” I exhaled, the weight of my own words settling over me. “I grew up an orphan, Viktor. And today, I decided the world has enough orphans like me.”

Hannah trembled against his chest. She understood.

“You have nothing to fear,” I said, switching to flawless German. “You will not die today. I will ensure your family’s safety. But you have to do exactly as I say.”

Hannah’s lips parted, but no words came.

“Where are your children?” I asked.

“They should be home from school by now,” she murmured.

“Then we need to move.” I stepped toward the door. “You’re leaving Austria tonight.”

Viktor stiffened, but he didn’t argue.

I led them out of the gallery, leaving the blood, the body, and the life they had known behind. By sunrise, the Rolfes would no longer exist—not as they had before.

And neither, perhaps, would I.