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Jack didn't reply. He didn't need to. He waited for the rhythmic sweep of the searchlight to pass, then sprinted. He was a blur of olive drab and raw muscle. A guard turned, his mouth opening to shout, but Jack was faster. A hand muffled the cry; a blade found its mark. Silent. Efficient.

The rain in Berlin didn’t just fall; it felt like it was trying to drown the very soul of the Reich. Jack "Butcher" O'Hara adjusted the collar of his coat, the weight of his combat knife a familiar comfort against his thigh. Behind him, the shadows shifted—René Duchamp, the Spymaster, was a ghost in the mist, already blending into the perimeter of the high-security compound. commandos-3-hd-remaster-full-repack-kuyhaa

In the courtyard, the Spymaster was already at work, wearing a stolen lieutenant's uniform. With a nonchalant tip of his cap, he distracted a pair of sentries, leading them into a dark alleyway where they wouldn’t be bothering anyone again. Jack didn't reply

"Clock's ticking, Butcher," came the crackle of the radio. It was the Sapper, Thomas Hancock, perched on a nearby rooftop with enough explosives to level a city block if things went south. He was a blur of olive drab and raw muscle