Chapter Text
Morning came slowly, the first rays of sunlight creeping through the cracks in the farmhouse’s old wooden shutters. John had barely slept, his mind too focused on the precarious situation they were in. The resistance members had taken shifts throughout the night, never leaving the room unguarded for even a moment.
Helen had managed to drift off for a few hours, curled up with the girls on the couch, but John could see the toll the situation was taking on her. Her face was pale, her eyes ringed with dark circles. Despite her exhaustion, she occasionally came to his side, holding his hand as if that simple connection could keep them both grounded in reality.
The leader returned to the room just as the sun began to rise, a smug expression on his face. He carried a small bag in his hand, which he set down on the table beside John and patted his cheek with more force than necessary.
"Good morning, Smith," the leader greeted, his tone almost cheerful. "I trust you slept well?"
John didn’t respond, his eyes narrowing as he watched the leader carefully. The man’s arrogance was grating, but John knew better than to let it get under his skin.
The leader opened the bag and began to remove its contents: a small syringe, a vial of clear liquid, and a thick leather strap. John’s stomach turned as he realized what was about to happen.
"You see, Smith," the leader began, as he methodically prepared the syringe, "Himmler’s cooperation has given us a rare opportunity. But we’re not foolish enough to believe he won’t try something. So, before we finalize the exchange, we’re going to make sure you’re nice and compliant."
John’s jaw clenched. "You’re wasting your time."
The leader chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, this isn’t about me wasting my time, Smith. It will be really beneficial, you'll see. This is about ensuring that when the time comes, you’re too out of it to do anything but follow orders."
John struggled against his bonds, but the ropes held tight. The leader’s men approached, forcing his head back against the chair and strapping the leather band around his arm, pulling it tight.
"You’ll still be conscious," the leader continued, almost conversationally, as he filled the syringe. "But you won’t have much control over what you do. Think of it as a way to keep you from getting any bright ideas during the exchange."
John’s heart pounded as the needle pierced his skin, the cold liquid burning as it entered his bloodstream. He fought to stay focused, to resist the drug’s effects, but he could already feel his senses dulling, the edges of his vision blurring.
The leader stepped back, watching with satisfaction as John’s struggles grew weaker. "There, that should do it. Now, just sit back and relax, Oberstgruppenführer. The show is about to begin."
John’s head lolled to the side, his thoughts growing muddled. He could hear Helen’s voice, faint and distant, calling his name, but he couldn’t muster the strength to respond. The room seemed to tilt and spin, the faces of his captors warping and twisting in his mind.
He had to stay awake, had to fight the drug’s pull. But it was like trying to swim against a powerful current, every stroke sapping more of his strength.
As his consciousness began to slip away, John’s last coherent thought was of his family. He had to protect them. No matter what it took, he had to keep them safe.
But then the darkness closed in, and John was lost to the void.
The news of the Smith family’s abduction spread quickly through the upper echelons of the Reich, reaching Reichsführer Himmler within hours. The Oberstgruppenführer’s disappearance was a severe blow, not just for the loss of a key officer, but for the potential intelligence that could fall into enemy hands.
Himmler sat in his office, his expression as cold and unreadable as ever. The message from the resistance lay before him on the desk, their demands clearly outlined: the release of several high-profile resistance members in exchange for the safe return of John Smith and his family.
It was a bold move, one that Himmler might have respected under different circumstances. But the audacity of the resistance only fueled his anger. They had dared to strike at the heart of the Reich’s power, to take one of his most valuable officers hostage.
Himmler reached for the phone, his mind already calculating the next steps. He was not a man to be threatened or coerced. The resistance wanted a negotiation, but what they would get was something far deadlier.
"Prepare a response," Himmler ordered, his voice icy. "Inform the resistance that we will agree to their terms. But ensure that our operatives are ready to move the moment we have confirmation of the exchange location."
The officer on the other end of the line hesitated. "Sir, are you sure—"
"Do it," Himmler snapped, his patience thin. "And inform our contacts in the field that any sign of treachery from the resistance will be met with immediate and lethal force. I want the Smith family retrieved, but if it comes down to it, the resistance members are expendable."
"Understood, sir," the officer replied before the line went dead.
Himmler leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin. The game was in motion, and he intended to win. The resistance believed they had the upper hand, but they were about to learn a harsh lesson in the realities of war.
There would be no mercy, no leniency. Himmler would retrieve John Smith and his family, but he would do so on his terms, and when the dust settled, the resistance would be left in ruins.
As he sat in the silence of his office, Himmler’s mind was already working through the possibilities, the contingencies. He would send a message to the resistance that they would never forget—a message written in blood and fire.
And when it was over, John Smith would return to his post, having witnessed firsthand the lengths to which the Reich would go to protect its own.
Back at the farmhouse, time seemed to drag on as the drug coursed through John’s veins. His thoughts were muddled, his limbs heavy and unresponsive. Every sound, every movement in the room felt distant, as if he were observing it all from underwater.
But one thing remained clear in his foggy mind: the danger his family was in. He had to find a way to break through the haze, to fight back before it was too late.
Helen’s voice broke through the fog, soft and urgent. "John, please, you have to wake up. We need you."
John struggled to respond, his mouth barely able to form the words. "I… I’m trying…"
The resistance leader watched the exchange with a satisfied smile. "You see, Mrs. Smith, your husband is strong, but even he can’t fight this. And soon, neither will Himmler."
Helen’s eyes flashed with anger and fear. "You think you can take on the Reich and win? You have no idea what you’re up against."
The leader shrugged, unfazed. "We don’t need to win, Mrs. Smith. We just need to make our point. And your husband here is the perfect tool for that."
Helen’s gaze flicked to John, her heart breaking at the sight of him slumped and helpless in the chair. She knew that if they didn’t find a way out of this soon, they might not survive the day.
Suddenly, the radio crackled to life, drawing the leader’s attention. One of his men handed him the device, and he listened intently to the voice on the other end.
"Good news, Smith," the leader announced, his tone dripping with false cheer. "It seems your owner has agreed to our terms. The exchange is set. We’ll be getting our comrades back, and you… well, we'll see what happens to you."
But as the leader spoke, Helen noticed a flicker of something in his eyes—doubt, perhaps even fear. It was subtle, but it was enough to give her hope.
She knew that Himmler was not a man who negotiated out of weakness. If he had agreed to the resistance’s demands, it meant he had something else planned, something that would turn the tables in their favor.
But what that plan was, Helen could only guess. All she knew was that they had to be ready for whatever came next.
As the leader began organizing his men for the exchange, Helen leaned in close to John, whispering urgently. "John, I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I need you to stay with me. We’re going to get out of this. I promise."
John nodded weakly, fighting through the haze. He tried to muster the energy to smile at Helen to reassure her that he was alright, but the drug was rendering him unable to move his muscles. He could feel the drug’s grip on him loosening, but it wasn’t fast enough. The clock was ticking, and he knew that the next few hours would be critical.
As the preparations for the exchange continued, Helen held onto a single thought: they had survived this long, and they would survive what was coming next. No matter what it took, they would find a way to stay together and come out of this nightmare alive.
But as the resistance leader finalized the plans and the hour of the exchange drew closer, Helen couldn’t shake the feeling that they were on the edge of a precipice, teetering between life and death.
And all it would take was one wrong move for everything to come crashing down.
The hours crept by as the farmhouse seemed to close in on itself, the walls pressing inward with the weight of what was about to unfold. John Smith sat slumped in the chair, his body battered and broken, his mind fogged by the drug that coursed through his veins. Every breath was a struggle, each inhale sending waves of pain radiating from his bruised ribs and lacerated skin.
His thoughts were jumbled, disconnected fragments of worry and fear that he could barely piece together. But one thing cut through the haze with painful clarity: the sound of Helen’s voice, soft and filled with anguish.
Helen had not left his side since the torture had ended, her hand never straying far from his. She was desperate to find some way to soothe his pain, but there was little she could do. The sight of him—once so strong, so commanding—reduced to this state was more than she could bear. Her heart ached with every groan that escaped his lips, every wince of pain that marred his features.
She knew the man she loved was still in there, beneath the layers of agony and drugs, but he felt so far away. The distance between them had never been so vast, and Helen felt helpless, powerless to bridge that gap.
"John," she whispered, leaning close to him, her voice trembling. "Please, stay with me. We need you. The girls need you."
John’s eyes fluttered open, but they were unfocused, lost in the fog of pain and drugs. He wanted to respond, to tell her that he was fighting, that he would do anything to protect them, but the words stuck in his throat, trapped by the haze that clouded his mind.
Helen bit her lip, struggling to keep her emotions in check. She couldn’t afford to break down now—not when her husband and her daughters needed her to be strong. But it was so hard, so impossibly hard, to see the man she had always relied on, the man who had always been her rock, reduced to this.
She glanced over at Amy and Jennifer, who sat huddled together on the couch, their small faces pale and frightened. They had been so quiet, so still, ever since the torture had ended. It was as if they were too scared to make a sound, too afraid of what might happen if they did.
Jennifer, the older of the two, kept her eyes fixed on her father, her expression a mix of confusion and fear. She had always seen her father as invincible, a man who could do no wrong, who could protect them from anything. But now, seeing him like this, so weak and vulnerable, she didn’t know what to think.
"Daddy," Jennifer whispered, her voice barely audible. "Are you going to be okay?"
The question hung in the air, unanswered. John’s head lolled to the side, his eyes closing again as another wave of pain washed over him. Helen’s heart broke at the sight, tears welling up in her eyes. She wanted so desperately to tell her daughters that everything would be alright, that their father would recover and they would all be safe again. But she couldn’t bring herself to lie to them, not when the truth was so uncertain.
Amy, the younger of the two, buried her face in Jennifer’s shoulder, her small body trembling with silent sobs. She didn’t understand what was happening, didn’t know why these men had hurt her father, why they were all trapped in this terrible place. All she knew was that her daddy was in pain, and there was nothing she could do to help him.
Helen watched her daughters, her heart aching with a pain that was almost physical. She had always tried to shield them from the worst of the world, to protect their innocence for as long as possible. But now, that innocence was being stripped away, piece by piece, as they were forced to witness horrors that no child should ever see.
"I’m sorry," Helen whispered, her voice choked with emotion. "I’m so sorry, my loves. I wish I could make this all go away."
She looked back at John, her mind racing with a thousand thoughts. What if he didn’t recover? What if the man she loved was lost to her forever, buried beneath the pain and the drugs? The thought was too much to bear, and she had to fight to keep from breaking down completely.
But she couldn’t give in to despair. Not now. Not when there was still a chance—no matter how small—that they could make it out of this nightmare alive.
As she sat there, holding John’s hands and trying to will him back to consciousness, Helen’s thoughts drifted back to the early days of their marriage. Back then, John had been a different man—strong, confident, full of life. He had been her protector, her anchor in a world that often felt chaotic and uncertain.
She remembered the way he used to look at her, with a love so intense it took her breath away. She remembered the way he would hold her, making her feel safe and cherished, as if nothing in the world could ever harm them.
But that man was gone now, replaced by a shadow of his former self, a man broken by the horrors he had witnessed and the violence he had been forced to endure.
Helen blinked back tears, refusing to let them fall. She had to stay strong. For John, for their daughters. She couldn’t afford to lose hope, not when they needed her to be their rock now more than ever.
But the fear gnawed at her, a constant presence in the back of her mind. What if they didn’t make it out of this? What if the resistance leader’s threats weren’t just empty words? What if this was the end for all of them?
She forced the thoughts away, focusing instead on the warmth of John’s hands in hers, on the faint but steady rise and fall of his chest. He was still alive, still fighting, and as long as there was life in him, there was hope.
The hours dragged on, each one a lifetime of worry and fear. The resistance members continued their preparations, oblivious to the turmoil brewing in Helen’s heart. She could feel the weight of their stares, could sense the contempt they held for her husband, for the man they saw as a symbol of everything they were fighting against.
But to Helen, John wasn’t just a symbol. He was a husband, a father, a man who had sacrificed so much to keep his family safe. And now, it was up to her to protect him, to find some way—any way—to bring him back to her.
As the clock ticked toward the time of the exchange, Helen’s thoughts turned to the plan Himmler had set in motion. She didn’t trust him—how could she? The man was a monster, capable of unspeakable cruelty. But she knew that he was also calculating, ruthless in his pursuit of the Reich’s goals. If he had agreed to the resistance’s demands, it meant he had something up his sleeve, some plan to turn the situation to his advantage.
But what that plan was, and whether it would save them or doom them all, was still a mystery.
Helen looked down at John, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. His skin was clammy, his breath shallow, but there was a flicker of life in his eyes, a faint glimmer of the man she loved.
"Hold on, John," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "Please, just hold on a little longer. We’ll get through this. I promise you, we will."
But even as she spoke the words, a part of her couldn’t shake the fear that they were running out of time.