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about-"
    "Schaefer!" screamed Loewe, sitting bolt upright in his chair. He may only have been pretending to be their leader - and wasn't really interested in an update on anything at the moment - but if there was one thing Loewe couldn't stand it was being interrupted. "Never speak before I have finished, is that understood?"
    Schaefer remained silent, until he realised Loewe was waiting for him to give his answer. "Yes, of course, sir. But I bring bad news about one of the campaigns in England."
    Loewe raised an eyebrow. England : one of their oldest enemies. Well, not Loewe's specifically; he didn't give a shit about the country either way. Nevertheless, his men felt especially passionate about taking control of that isle, which was why they didn't complain - not that they dared anyway - about his use of so many resources over there, when they still had much of Germany to secure. This was potentially serious.
    " You bring bad news?" asked Loewe.
    "Er, actually..." Schaefer dragged in a second man, this one not familiar to Loewe. After a while all the uniformed people blurred into one. "Mayer here was the messenger who brought the news." Schafer pushed the other man into the room, closing the door behind them. "Tell the General what you told me," he ordered.
    "Sir, I..."
    Loewe rose, and his dogs raised their heads. "What is it man? Spit it out, for God's sake!"
    Mayer was looking nervously from Loewe to the Alsatians.
    "I said spit it out!" Loewe snapped. The dogs began to growl.
    "I-It's about the Widow's venture."
    "The venture we have been funding , sir," clarified Schaefer, adjusting his glasses. That word took on a different meaning in this day and age, to the one Loewe had been used to at any rate, but it amounted to the same thing. They'd been supplying the woman with vehicles and equipment in order to cause the maximum amount of trouble. Something had obviously gone very wrong, though, by the look of Mayer. He's practically shitting himself , thought Loewe.
    "The venture you convinced us to fund, Schaefer," Loewe reminded him, then addressed Mayer again. "Go on."
    "T-there was an attack yesterday," Mayer informed him.
    "The Widow lost a number of men," Schaefer added, "but also, regrettably, several jeeps and motorcycles, not to mention guns, ammunition-"
    " Our jeeps, motorcycles, guns and ammunition," Loewe reminded him. "Who was responsible for this attack?"
    Schaefer prodded Mayer in the back to get him to answer. "Hood," said the man, his voice breaking. "It was Hood, sir."
    Hood. Yes, Loewe had heard the tales just like everyone else, about a man who dressed like that famous legend and fought using a bow and arrow. Loewe almost had to admire that conman's audacity; it would be like him donning a toothbrush moustache and insisting they all called him The Führer. But that man had also, it was said, depleted The Tsar's forces - another reason why they hadn't attacked the New Order yet. In any event, if this Hood character was tackling the Widow then reports were correct and he was doing just as they were, spreading out across his own country. It was a dangerous thing, because it meant that at some point their paths would cross. Someone like Hood, who had managed to convince his followers he was on some kind of damned crusade against evil might get the bright idea of coming after them in Germany.
    "How did it happen?" Loewe asked through gritted teeth.
    "He and his Rangers were lying in wait, hidden in a convoy the Widow's men were raiding."
    Loewe slammed his fist down on the desk. It hurt and made him madder than ever. "The silly bitch! We give her all those weapons and she loses them to a bunch of fucking comic book characters." He walked round the front of the desk and his dogs rose again. Loewe tapped his lips for a moment, trying to look thoughtful. He already knew what had to be done. Picking up a large silver letter opener that had been resting on the wood, he touched the tip, testing its sharpness.