The rain had thickened to a cold, unrelenting sheet, hammering on steel and glass, muffling sound but amplifying chaos. Imel's car—or what remained of it—was rattling like a gutted tin can, bullet holes punched through its frame, windows shattered, its engine screaming with each lurch forward. Behind them, two black sedans swerved and skidded on the slick cobblestones, their headlights cutting twin spears through the storm. From their windows, figures in all black leaned out with machine pistols, bursts of gunfire slashing across the rain. Bullets cracked the air, smacked against what was left of the car's metal shell, sparks spitting into the night.
Imel sat rigid in the backseat, pale and silent, his lips tightening into a grim line. Krämer, pressed low in the seat beside him, shouted above the roar of the storm and engines, "They're closing in, Herr Obergruppenführer!"
"Drive faster," Imel growled.
But the driver's knuckles were already white, the wheel trembling in his grip as he fought the skid. Ahead loomed a crossroads where SS troopers manned a checkpoint—exactly as Imel had ordered hours earlier, a precaution born of instinct. Their figures stood stark under the rain, rifles at the ready, helmets glistening wet in the harsh floodlight.
Then, as if on cue, the pursuers slowed. The first black car's driver tapped his brakes, the second mirrored him. Both vehicles crawled for several yards, as though reconsidering the chase, before turning sharply down an alley, their tail-lights vanishing into the misty dark like phantoms.
The car rattled and coughed. It rolled another ten yards and then, with a final gasp, the engine died. Steam poured from the hood; the smell of burning oil mixed with wet cobblestones. Imel stared at the motionless vehicle with a faint, sardonic smirk. "It carried us as far as it needed to," he murmured, then pushed open the battered door.
Rain hit his face like needles. As his boots struck the street, the SS roadblock immediately snapped to attention. Dozens of soldiers stiffened, rifles to their shoulders, saluting in perfect unison despite the storm. Their black uniforms clung to them, white piping gleaming wet against the gray gloom.
Imel paid no heed to the salute. He walked with deliberate calm toward the squad leader, his coat dragging mud, his eyes burning with something colder than fury. "Report," he barked.
The squad leader hesitated, then straightened. "Herr Obergruppenführer, only fragments. Orders came down to the Wehrmacht to enforce martial law around the banquet hall. That is all. On their radio—chaos. Screams, confused commands. They sound unprepared."
Imel's face was unreadable, but his thoughts churned. The Wehrmacht. Always sluggish, always fumbling for control when true crisis struck. And now, with hundreds of SS brass wounded or dead inside that inferno, the risk was intolerable. The Reich's most precious arteries of power could not be left to wither in Wehrmacht hands.
He turned to Krämer, his voice low but slicing like a blade: "Hauptscharführer Krämer. From this moment, the SS assumes full control of Paris. The city is under martial law. Issue the following: all airports are to be locked down immediately—nobody leaves, under any circumstances. A senior SS officer is to seize the former French palace at once and secure any surviving officials. Recall all SS men currently on leave in Paris—they have seventy-two hours to report in, regardless of assignment. If they fail…" He let the silence finish the sentence.
"Yes, Herr Obergruppenführer!" Krämer saluted sharply, his boots splashing through the puddles as he ran to relay the commands.
Within minutes, the SS headquarters came alive. Radios buzzed with clipped voices. Heavy boots thundered on stairwells. Trucks rolled into the rain-slick streets, black steel and red banners cutting through the fog. One by one, intersections were sealed, Wehrmacht sentries displaced, their protests smothered by the presence of SS authority.
At the airports, civilians cried out as soldiers stormed terminals, snapping orders in German and harsh French. Passengers were shoved against walls, luggage rifled through, clerks dragged out by their collars. Runways were seized, hangars locked. At every corner of Paris, pairs of SS men in black greatcoats smoked under the drizzle, rifles at hand, eyes sweeping over every face that dared step into the night.
The former French palace, its once-majestic halls reduced to flame and ruin, was crawling with Wehrmacht troops when the SS convoys arrived. Trucks disgorged lines of men in black uniforms, their boots thundering over the cobblestones as they poured into the rubble. SS-Brigadeführer Schöngarth and Gruppenführer Heinrich Müller were already there, faces bloodied and gray with ash, leading frantic searches for survivors.
Müller turned at the sound of engines. Relief flashed in his hard eyes as he saw the flood of SS reinforcements. He had suspected the Wehrmacht's designs—suspected, too, that they would attempt to use this catastrophe to pin the Reich's shame upon the SS. His suspicion had been correct.
Krämer stormed through the chaos, saluting with sharp efficiency before delivering the words like a guillotine. "This scene and the city are now under SS control. Orders of Obergruppenführer Imel."
Schöngarth exhaled, a visible loosening of his shoulders. Müller nodded once, the calculation behind his eyes dark and fast. Both men knew: Imel had crushed the Wehrmacht's scapegoat plan before it could even form.
Krämer continued, his tone clipped. "SS-Brigadeführer Schöngarth, you are to return to headquarters and take command of the reserve SS recalled from leave. You will assume control of Paris in full, wresting authority from the Wehrmacht. SS-Gruppenführer Müller, you are to remain here and oversee the investigation of this outrage. Root out the cause, identify the culprit."
Schöngarth saluted, though his face was cold stone. "Before I go," he said, "my men will confiscate every camera. Earlier today, my image was taken amid this travesty. The thought of it being used against the Reich disgusts me. Any man who took that photograph is a collaborator and will be delivered to me alive."
Müller added his own order, voice sharp as broken glass: "The surviving SS members and their wives are to be sent to hospitals under SS authority only. Separate facilities, no Wehrmacht oversight. None leave without direct approval. This chaos will not be used to weaken us further."
"Heil Hitler!" Krämer snapped, saluting once more before striding away to enforce the orders.
The night bled into dawn, Paris transformed into a fortress. Curfews were declared, random inspections became routine, and the weight of boots echoed on every street. Citizens walked with papers clutched tight to their chests, their eyes lowered. The Wehrmacht remained visible but sidelined, forced into a secondary role, their officers grumbling but powerless.
At SS headquarters, Imel transmitted a full report to Berlin. The Reich Chancellery fumed, demanding answers, demanding results, but beneath their fury Imel sensed opportunity. Quietly, he had already dispatched Mengele and his assistants back to Germany—an act of misdirection to keep suspicion from his true purpose in Paris.
But even as discipline returned to the city, cracks spread beneath the surface. The forbidden photograph—Schöngarth captured in the flames, coughing blood before the ruined palace—was smuggled out, printed in secret, and sold on the black market. When news reached Schöngarth, his fury was volcanic. He and Krämer stormed the photographer's home, dragging the man into the night.
In the cellars of Nazi headquarters, the walls soon echoed with screams. Schöngarth himself took the man's fingers, pulling nails one by one, peeling skin back in wet strips. When the man fainted, cold water revived him, only for the torment to continue. Müller watched, impassive, before returning to his task: assembling lists, cross-checking names, hunting for a ghost who had dared wound the Reich at its heart.
By noon the following day, Paris was unrecognizable. The city of lights had become a city of iron, where the shadows of men in black uniforms stretched long across every street, every café, every apartment. And behind it all, Imel waited, calculating, his hand tightening ever more firmly around the throat of Paris.