Anyone who was anyone in the German ranks knew that the Home Army had a few notches on their guns from the number of Nazi heads they made roll. Figuratively. At the moment, their executions had been conducted through the considerably more humane method of ambush and firing squad, but Feliks was of the belief that after they won the war, he would put in a strong argument to reintroducing the guillotine à la Revolution française. He wouldn't be very sorry to see the streets of Warsaw re-baptized in Nazi blood–he was sure God could understand. More innocent blood has been shed for his conquests and ambitions in the past, and no one had ever condemned him for that, so people who actually deserved it this time? Surely He could understand.
Feliks slouched down in his chair, burying his chin into the collar of his jacket. The restaurant buzzed around him with the guttural vowels of German–only Germans could afford to patronize restaurants and cafés anymore, or sometimes the rare Pole who decided a longer leash and a slightly postponed death sentence were worth selling out his own countrymen for. Feliks wouldn't be here himself if it wasn't for such a rat–a slimy character who had decided that war really wasn't going their way, and it'd be worth it to sell out a few good men and women from the resistance to try and earn a spot as a Nazi lapdog. Pathetic.
Feliks didn't usually like to kill humans like this–on his own, independent of an army. It always felt a little too much like playing God, a bit unfair to the person he was targeting by way of, well, years and years of experience. Numbers tended to even out the odds. But duty called, and this time, duty said the rest of the army is up to their necks trying to make sure their families will be safe before this whole thing collapses around our ears, so you can damn well take care of one rat and get what little bit of justice you can in this hell. He didn't consider himself much of a trigger-happy person–but he did feel like he'd go and do something stupid soon if he allowed himself to linger over how those people died in vain and the one responsible for it got away. So, who knows. Maybe the clandestine assassination mission was the stupid thing, but at least then he could cross it off the list.
When Henryk Kozłowski stood, so did Feliks. He pulled his cap low over his eyes and stepped out of the table, glancing around quickly to see if anyone was being particularly attentive. The only server he'd seen that day was nowhere to be found between the few occupied tables, so he shrugged and skipped out, leaving his empty cup on the table. He didn't care for that particular establishment much anyway–if he recalled correctly, half of the new dining area used to belong to a Jewish family, the Feldhendlers or something. One day, their windows got broken, and the shutters went down, and the tailory never reopened until the restaurant expanded outwards, eating space. He didn't know what had become of that family–but he could hazard a guess.
He turned out into the streets, a respectable distance behind Kozłowski. The small pistol weighed down on his thigh with each step, a steady reminder of one bullet that would make one thing right again while the world committed one wrong after another. There was no crowd to shield him from prying eyes, so he didn't dare stick too close though he kept a lookout on Kozłowski all the while–the slumped, thin-shouldered figure of a man with thinning hair. He looked like any other citizen of Warsaw–drawn, hungry, weary. Feliks almost wished that the deaths would have fattened him up, like that restaurant, stuffed him like a glutinous monster. That was all Nazis did, anyway–they consumed space and people, gorging themselves on flesh and blood, growing themselves bigger and bigger until there was nothing left but bones to sustain them. Then, he supposed, maybe they would eat each other, but he didn't want to become bones to find out.
Kozłowski turned the corner. Feliks was familiar with that route; on the days Kozłowski went out to eat, he'd take that shortcut through the alley to get home. A usually deserted location, far enough away from the temporary German headquarters to give Feliks a head start if the gunshot attracted attention. He followed Kozłowski in, one hand pushing back his long coat to slide his pistol from its holster, the other slipping his crucifix from under his shirt. He pressed the warm metal against his lips and said a quiet prayer, requesting understanding and forgiveness.
It was over in less than a minute.
The shot rang out clear into the brisk air. Blood crept into the cracks of the building's façade, into the scars of the cobblestone path. The day was bright and cloudless, and his cross felt no heavier nor lighter for what he had done.
