The midday sun hung heavy over Rio de Janeiro, bathing the city in a golden glaze that softened the edges of even its most hardened structures.
Tourists wandered Copacabana in sandals and wide-brimd hats, schoolchildren kicked footballs down narrow alleys, and vendors pushed carts full of sweet coconut milk and steaming pastel.
But at the intersection, the future of a continent teetered on a thread.
Fritz adjusted his sunglasses.
He leaned against the side of a parked food truck, sipping chilled guaraná through a straw.
His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to expose a tasteful amount of sweat-slicked chest, a gold chain rested over his tasteful tan.
The image of a man who belonged. Who lived here. Who drank this drink, on this street, in this sun, every day of his life.
Behind the shades, his pale blue eyes swept the periter.
Flags were already being hoisted.
Red, white, and green Allied banners.
Arican and Brazilian side by side.
Uniford security patrolled in pairs, so from the local Guarda Nacional, others in fresh jungle-pattern fatigues with U.S. patches barely stitched on.
Too new. Too eager.
Across the street, a woman in a floral dress leaned out of a third-story window, brushing her long black hair.
She paused briefly to hang a white sheet on the line.
Fritz nodded.
A block down, a bearded street guitarist with a bandana and mirrored sunglasses tuned his instrunt.
He strumd lightly, the chord clean, perfectly pitched.
Two notes.
Fritz exhaled slowly.
To his right, a teenager on a motorbike pretended to stall, then wheeled into an alley.
From above, a maintenance worker appeared to be adjusting a CCTV mount on a light post.
They were everywhere. Yet nowhere.
He took another sip.
The plaza was being prepped for a historic address.
Vice President Calheiros was due to speak at 17:00, flanked by military officials and high-level U.S. envoys.
Caras had already been set up on scaffolding.
A podium stood beneath the shade of the neoclassical columns, wrapped in Brazilian and Allied flags.
The crowd would be massive. They were counting on that.
Fritz stepped away from the truck and casually walked toward the central fountain.
He dipped his hand in the cool water, letting the beads fall from his knuckles like rain.
Around him, pigeons flapped lazily and families argued over where to find the best ice cream.
A child scread in delight as a balloon vendor let loose a handful of colored orbs into the sky.
Perfect.
He found a bench and sat.
He opened a newspaper, skimming over the headlines.
Inflation. Corruption. A bombing in Bogotá.
U.S. Naval buildup in the Caribbean. And at the top, an editorial in bold letters: "Why Brazil Must Choose the Right Side of History."
He smiled faintly.
A young woman passed by with a clipboard, gathering nas for a pro-Allied petition.
She smiled at him. He returned it with enough warmth to seem inviting, but not enough to linger.
She kept walking.
Fritz checked his watch. The second hand ticked cleanly.
"Two hours," he murmured.
A subtle whistle drifted from the steps of a nearby church.
Fritz didn’t look, but he registered the sound.
He folded the newspaper and rose.
As he walked, he passed a man pushing a janitor’s cart.
They brushed shoulders.
"South rooftop is clear," ca the whisper, too quiet for anyone else to hear.
Fritz kept walking.
Each operative had their own sector.
Each knew only what they had to.
In a city of millions, five n could move like water through stone if they understood the rhythm.
Werwolf understood rhythm.
Chaos was their lody.
He made his way up the steps of a municipal building still under renovation.
No one questioned him.
Construction workers were everywhere.
He wore the sa dusty boots.
Carried the sa smudged clipboard. Blended with the noise.
From the top floor, he gazed down at the plaza.
Perfect elevation. Uninterrupted lines of sight.
Ergency vehicles clustered by the south boulevard.
He lifted a small pair of opera glasses.
A flower cart rolled into position by the central monunt.
A street sweeper slowed, paused by a drain, and dropped sothing that clinked just once.
A vagrant shuffled into the alley behind the stage, muttering nonsense to himself.
No one would look twice.
Fritz closed the glasses.
Across the city, other Werwolf cells were preparing.
Small groups of five n each.
In Mérida, in Santiago, in Buenos Aires.
But Rio was the opening note. The overture.
And it had to be flawless.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette.
Lit it. Let the smoke drift upward, curling in the air above the broken balustrade.
Down below, technicians tested the microphones.
A loud squawk of feedback rang across the plaza.
Fritz smiled.
That would be the last speech Calheiros ever gave.
He turned, descended the stairs slowly, and lted back into the crowd.
Not one man looked at him twice.
The Werewolves had co to Rio, and the rest of the New World.
They had co invited as employees, as refugees, but never as tourists.
Their papers were flawless, their ability to assimilate unblemished.
Bruno had been preparing for this eventuality for years.
Despite telling the kaiser that he initially intended to use his rcenaries as the spear that would deal the final blow to the French Republic.
Bruno’s intentions had always been clear from the start.
Werwolf Group, a rcenary force the Reich had never officially acknowledged, had now set its eyes on the New World.
Not as conquerors. But as catalysts.
Chaos breeds entropy. Entropy breeds collapse.
While the Aricans looked east across the Atlantic, they never noticed the wolves already among them.
And they were sheep.
Just waiting to be torn apart.
One that had spent decades building experience in war zones across the world.
Had now set its sights on the new world.
More specifically, as the agents of chaos that would usher in the fall of not just Brazil, but the remaining "free world."
Because chaos led to entropy, and entropy led to collapse.
While the Aricans focused on the threat that remained across the Atlantic, they would never expect that the wolves were already among them.
And they were sheep just waiting to be torn apart.
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