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B.J. didn't waste breath on a retort. He yanked a hatchet from his belt, felt the familiar weight of it, and hurled it with the precision of a man who had nothing left to lose but his chains. It didn't hit the Kommandant; it hit the containment release for the gravity well.
B.J. stood up, his massive frame nearly touching the ceiling. "Then we don't let them finish it."
Hours later, the world was a blur of freezing wind and steel. B.J. didn't use the front door; he dropped from a stolen jump-jet, crashing through the skylight of the research spire. He landed in a crouch, the glass shattering like diamonds around his heavy boots.
The air inside the U-boat, Eva’s Hammer , always smelled of stale grease and desperation, but today it felt heavier. B.J. Blazkowicz sat on the edge of his cot, the mechanical joints of his Da’at Yichud power suit whirring softly as he tightened a bolt on his prosthetic limb. "Hey, Terror-Billy," a voice rasped.
