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Chapter 243 The Rebel Army

Western Ukraine.

There is a hilly area near the Carpathian Mountains.

In late spring, the air is humid, and the wind sweeps through the pine treetops, carrying the chill of melting snow.

A stone fortress lies horizontally in the warm May sunshine.

It was originally a hunting estate of a forestry nobleman in the Austro-Hungarian Empire.

Built at the end of the 19th century, it was located on a natural rock platform.

Surrounded by forests on three sides, it overlooks the valley on the other.

The building has a symmetrical layout and features a typical high-pitched roof and gray stone masonry walls.

Under the eaves, there is also a faded deer head relief.

The windows are mostly topped with pointed arches, with two symmetrical wings extending outwards.

In the years following the end of the war, the place changed hands several times, and there were four different names registered in the archives.

Some were in German, while others simply tore off entire pages and replaced them with handwritten annotations.

Now, everyone calls it "Haus Karpatenschirm" (the Carpathian Shield).

When Ketterle placed the kettle back on the silver tray, his palms were already sweating.

The object was heavier than expected, so much so that she lost her balance slightly when she lifted it and almost spilled it.

The waiter wiping the glasses next to her gave her a cold glance but didn't say anything.

She quickly stopped what she was doing, moved the handle of the teapot inward by half an inch, and tidied the folded cloth along the edge again.

Light streamed in from the window on the left front, falling on the floor tiles and making people dizzy.

The banquet was still some time away, but preparations for the reception had already begun.

People were constantly coming and going, and everything seemed to be in good order.

Katelyl straightened up and quickly scanned the space with her eyes.

The silverwares were put back in their place, the wine vessels were in the correct order, and everything was fine.

However, just as she was about to relax, the curtain behind her was suddenly flung open.

Immediately afterwards, a female voice rang out:
"Catley! What are you doing? Look at yourself!"

Katelyl instinctively turned around to look.

The middle-aged woman wore thick-soled leather shoes, a dark gray woolen suit, and a badge pinned to her chest.

At this moment, she was pointing and commenting on Cattel's outfit:
Headscarves are not good.

The apron is crooked.

The hem of the skirt wasn't straightened.

There are water stains on the cuffs.

Cattel lowered her head and obediently followed her instructions—

Although her name is not Cattel.

Her name is Elena Vasilyevna Khmelyuk.

Cattelly was simply her mother's maiden name when she was young.

Later, the officer in Chernovtse took it upon himself to put the name into the official registration form.

It is said to be elegant and easy to remember, but it doesn't have a "local flavor".

She should have hated that officer.

He had an arrogant, condescending attitude, a drunken smell, and a standard-issue pistol.

But life is far more complicated than hatred.

Because of him, I was able to work as a helper in the castle kitchen.

At that time, the war was not over, but Ukraine had already sunk.

A dependent territory without borders.

A “marginal area” that must be cleaned up, reorganized, and reused – they have many names for it.

Cattelly did not resist.

Initially, it was because my mother was still alive.
Later, it was because there were only two options left: either submit or disappear.

survive.

survive.

It's all about survival.

But humans are strange creatures.

When death is no longer a sudden bullet, but a long and ambiguous process, it becomes less decisive.

Perhaps it was for revenge, or perhaps it was because of ethnicity, language, or flag; Ketterle couldn't say for sure.

But she chose to stand here today, with many others.

Put all your worries aside.

Seeing that Katelyl was as humble as ever, the middle-aged woman nodded in satisfaction and turned to leave.

The room fell silent once more.

Katelyl glanced down at the toes of her shoes. The loose threads were still there, and the stitching wasn't tight enough, but it would hold up for now.

She silently recited a prayer in her heart.

Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, an unclean person.

May your name bring glory, and may the timid find peace.

You walked in the wilderness of Galilee, and you endured insults and beatings.

In the place where the wicked sit, and in the time when the violent lay their nets, watch over your servant.

I act according to your mercy, not according to my cowardice.

Judge according to your justice, not according to their power.

Lord, if I fall, receive me as you would a repentant thief.

If I can still go on, lead me on the path of righteousness.

Amen.

Kate Lyle's father was a pastor.

She had heard these things since she was a child, beside the incense under the icon, and in the village hall where the spring snow had not yet melted.

But he's gone.

It wasn't "leaving," it was death.

Ketterle once again corrected her own wording—dead.

died.

This word is harder, colder, and more powerful.

She needed that kind of strength to keep going after the gunshot.

Ketterleer regained her composure.

Her hands never stopped moving as she finished tidying up each item.

Wipe away the fingerprints from the rim of the cup.

Tighten the cap.

Align the metal buckle with the handle.

These details don't determine anything, but they make her feel real and in control.

Just then, the sound of leather boots came from outside.

The curtain was roughly pulled open again.

A sergeant in a light gray uniform rushed in, with folded paper sheets pressed under his epaulets.

The man, of medium build, around forty years old, with a ruddy complexion, asked without any politeness:
"The person upstairs is sick and is vomiting everywhere. Who can go up and cover for them?"

The air fell silent for half a second; no one dared to speak.

Before Katelyl could even think, the other person's gaze fell on her.

"You, come with me."

He took two steps forward and reached out to grab her arm.

Cattel's heart nearly stopped beating.

It wasn't because of the pain, but because of this unexpected turn of events.

It came too fast, and it was all too strange.

Has it been exposed?
She never made a single mistake.

But what if something goes wrong in other parts of the process?

What if communication was intercepted? Was the signal device detected? Was it activated in advance by someone above?

Or is this all a trap?
Dozens of possibilities flashed through Ketterley's mind in an instant.
Each one was enough to make her throat tighten.

On the surface, she simply nodded, without any other expression.
"Please allow me to bring the sugar bowl and coffee pot."

The portions upstairs are different from here.

The soldier frowned and looked her up and down for a few seconds.

Ketterle remained cautious and humble, head bowed, her posture submissive.

The other person didn't say anything more, let go of her hand, and raised her chin outwards:
"hurry up."

Katelyl curtsied and retreated behind the cabinet.

Without hesitation, she reached in with her left hand and quickly found the Beretta 1934 in the interlayer.

Originally, this was just a backup plan.

She wasn't the one who actually made the move—

But now, the "backup" has been pushed upstairs.

Without further hesitation, Katelyl tucked the gun into her waistband and picked up the tray with both hands.

She didn't know what she was about to face, nor was she sure if she was prepared.

But she thought, maybe she could.

(End of this chapter)