Chapter 146: An Ant Shakes a Tree
A bloody hole opened in the guard's chest.
For one frozen instant, the street seemed to hold its breath.
Then gunfire erupted.
The branch director, who had rushed over after hearing the commotion, never imagined that anyone would dare open fire on them. Although the headquarters of the Internal and External Intelligence Department had already been moved elsewhere, this building was still an intelligence branch under direct state authority, guarded and operated like a paramilitary fortress.
These people had gone mad.
What were they trying to do?
Steal intelligence?
Storm a state security office in broad daylight?
The thought made his expression change at once. He grabbed the microphone on the desk and shouted into it.
"This is Joa! Armed men are attempting to invade a branch of the Internal and External Intelligence Department! I repeat, armed men are attempting to invade the Internal and External Intelligence Department!"
Outside, the Brownshirts had no idea what sort of disaster they had just created.
In their eyes, the people resisting them were merely another group of stubborn foreigners or hidden enemies refusing to submit. With rifles in hand and numbers on their side, they began suppressing the intelligence officers inside the building until the latter could hardly raise their heads.
Bang, bang, bang!
The street instantly turned into a battlefield.
Orange-yellow shell casings scattered across the pavement. Window glass burst. Bullets tore into brickwork and sent chips of stone flying.
Seeing that someone actually dared resist, Röhm's interest only grew. He raised one hand and signaled to the men behind him.
"Bring up the machine guns!"
Several Brownshirts dragged a machine gun from the truck and set it up in the street. The next moment, a roaring stream of fire swept toward the second-floor strongpoint.
An intelligence guard had only just leaned out to return fire when a burst caught him in the head. His body snapped backward, blood and bone splattering across the wall behind him before he collapsed from the window.
"Grenades!" Röhm shouted. "Force them out!"
Two Brownshirts pulled grenades from their belts and hurled them toward the entrance.
"Take cover!"
The guard stationed behind the doorway reacted half a step too late. The blast swallowed him whole, turning his body into a charred mass of flesh and torn cloth.
The Brownshirts cheered and surged toward the door.
But just as they were about to break inside, a dark shadow crossed the sky.
Several dark green parachutes bloomed above the street, drifting downward like dandelion seeds falling from the heavens.
Röhm raised his binoculars.
After a single glance, his pupils contracted.
Paratroopers.
Because of his experience in Bolivia, he recognized them at once.
But why?
They were only driving away a group of foreign immigrants. Why were paratroopers being deployed?
Unlike Röhm's confusion, Hill's face lit up with amusement.
To him, this was not disaster. It was opportunity.
He immediately waved toward the Workers Party reporter nearby, ordering him to capture the scene.
"Do you see this?" Hill shouted to the crowd. "Do you all see it? The Army represented by Jörg von Roman has rotted to its core! They no longer represent Germany!"
He raised his voice, his expression fierce and fanatical.
"The Stormtroopers are the true armed force of the German people!"
"Today, we may fail. But remember this, the Workers Party is the only party that dares to fulfill its promises!"
Five elite soldiers from the 101st Task Force Airborne Division cut their parachute lines with combat knives the moment they landed on the rooftop. They dropped low, took firing positions, and began picking off armed men in the street with their G43 semi-automatic rifles.
Each shot was precise.
Each fall was final.
Seeing the Army fire into the crowd, Hill believed he had found the weapon that would destroy Jörg. Without fear, he stood upright in the convertible and spread his arms toward the people.
"They are committing atrocities against the people! Against ordinary Germans who are defending Germany! We must resist!"
The confused civilians, swept up by panic and rhetoric, shouted after him.
"We must resist!"
But very soon, the iron fist of the military taught them what the word dictatorship truly meant.
Tanks rolled onto the road, their tracks grinding against the pavement. Their turret-mounted machine guns swept across the sky in a warning display, the sound alone enough to crush courage.
Behind the tanks came troop carriers.
The soldiers who leapt down from them had just returned from Danzig. They were men of the Ninth Infantry Division, now merged with fresh detachments and awarded the honor name, Blood Wolves of Urban Warfare.
They had fought through streets, cellars, burning houses, and mined alleys.
A mob did not frighten them.
Sitora, who had barely tasted a few peaceful days, struck down a man blocking the road with the butt of his rifle. Pippen followed close behind, while John, now promoted to lead machine gunner, dropped to one knee and set up his weapon with practiced speed.
The mood of the crowd collapsed.
Those who had come to watch began running. Those who had joined for plunder threw away stolen goods and fled toward the edge of the street.
The Brownshirts panicked as well.
They had confidence when facing police. They could fight street patrolmen, tavern guards, and unarmed shopkeepers.
But now they were facing the Army.
How could a rabble with a few rifles and trucks fight regular troops?
Hill finally realized that preserving his own life mattered more than any speech. He quickly ordered the driver to leave.
"Drive! Drive now!"
But the growing number of airborne soldiers landing around the street were not blind.
A single shot blew out the convertible's tire.
The car lurched to one side and stopped dead.
On the rooftop, a sniper calmly adjusted his position and waited for the order.
Major Karl, who had arrived under urgent orders, lifted a megaphone and shouted across the street.
"Lay down your arms!"
A few Brownshirts hesitated. Their courage had already drained away. One by one, they dropped their rifles and lay face down on the street with their hands raised.
Karl began counting.
"Three!"
More rifles clattered to the ground.
"Two!"
By the time he reached two, over nine-tenths of the Brownshirts had already surrendered. Only a small squad of Hill's most loyal followers remained huddled around the convertible, determined to protect their leader and Röhm to the very end.
"One!"
Gunshots rang out.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Hill's most loyal guards collapsed where they stood.
In the back seat of the convertible, only Hill and Röhm remained. They huddled together, faces pale, mouths still moving with fear, rage, and delusion.
Hill was trembling, but his eyes were wild with excitement.
"I won!" he shouted. "You're finished! You will face the condemnation of the German people! The Progress Party will not receive a single vote from them!"
He laughed hoarsely.
"When I take office, I will execute all of you! All of you!"
Sitora stared coldly at the madman before him.
Then, like picking up a chicken, he dragged Hill out of the car.
Hill's mouth kept moving, spewing threats, curses, and fantasies of victory.
Sitora finally lost patience.
The butt of his rifle slammed down.
Hill's voice stopped at once.
When Hill woke again, he was no longer on Kant Avenue.
He was in an underground interrogation room beneath the newly built St. Wilhelm Psychiatric Hospital.
On paper, it was a psychiatric hospital.
In reality, it was the new headquarters of the Internal and External Intelligence Department.
The doctors here did not study healing. They studied interrogation, poisons, nerves, and the limits of human endurance.
Outside the interrogation room, flickering lights cast shifting shadows across Jörg's face.
He truly had not expected Hill to create two crises for him in a single day.
But since things had reached this point, everything could be settled at once.
Germany did not need the Workers Party's past.
It only needed the Progress Party's future.
After signaling the guard to open the door, Jörg entered and sat opposite Hill at the interrogation table.
The moment Hill saw him, his eyes lit up. He seemed completely unaware of the danger he was in. In his mind, he was still negotiating from a position of strength.
"Well, look who it is," Hill said with a twisted smile. "The famous Mr. Roman."
He leaned forward, his chains clinking.
"You're finished, Roman. You actually dared open fire on the people. This incident will nail you to the pillar of shame. No one will vote for you. No one!"
His smile widened.
"Now cooperate with me, and the military power can remain yours. I only want political power."
Jörg listened expressionlessly.
Then he lifted his head slightly, his deep blue eyes filled with open disdain.
"There will be no bargain, Hill."
His voice was calm, almost indifferent.
"To be honest, I did not expect you to be this foolish. Opening fire on the Intelligence Department alone is enough to send you to the gallows."
Hill's expression changed.
"I did not! Your people fired first!"
Jörg sneered.
He leaned forward, resting both hands on the table, and flicked his left hand slightly.
A folder was opened.
A series of photographs were thrown in front of Hill.
Jörg's voice was cold, like a judge passing sentence.
"Are these photographs false as well?"
Hill stared down.
His face stiffened.
In the photographs, he was seen meeting British intelligence personnel in secret.
Jörg continued, each word falling like iron.
"A party leader receiving British intelligence agents. A German politician conspiring with foreign powers. As for my future, and the future of the Progress Party, perhaps only God knows."
His gaze sharpened.
"But your future, Hill, and the future of the Workers Party, I already know."
"Tomorrow, these photographs will be published."
"German Traitor."
"Spy Who Sold Military Intelligence."
"These two labels will be your epitaph."
"The Workers Party will be declared an illegal organization. Its members will be purged. Its offices will be sealed. Its newspapers will be confiscated. Everything connected to you will be erased, cleaned away until not a trace remains."
Hill struggled to stand, the chains rattling violently.
"No one will believe you!" he screamed. "I won't admit it! I won't admit it even if I die!"
His eyes bulged, bloodshot and frantic.
"And who can prove that man was a British spy? Who has evidence?"
.....
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