“Good luck,” Charlie finally told him as he settled himself into position to provide cover fire in case Burke needed it.
The captain clapped him on the back and then turned to the others. “Williams, you’re with me. The rest of you keep your eyes peeled and get ready to join us when I give the signal.”
One last long look and then Burke took off running, Williams on his heels.
The twenty yards from the tree line to the farmhouse felt like half a mile. Burke’s world narrowed down to just the back door and the windows to either side of it, his gaze never leaving them as he rushed forward, watching for any flicker of movement, some sign that they weren’t alone. With his heart pounding in his chest and the sound of his own harsh breathing in his ears, he raced toward the door ahead of him, expecting at any moment to hear the crack of a shot and to be thrown to the ground as the bullet slammed into his body.
Thankfully, that didn’t happen.
He reached the rear of the house and threw himself against it to the right of the door. A second later Williams did the same on the left.
From his current position Burke could see that the door was slightly ajar. Catching the younger man’s eye, he held up the fingers of his mechanical hand and counted down from three, then shouldered the door open and rushed inside, his Tommy gun at the ready, his gaze flicking this way and that as he searched for a target.
They moved through each room—kitchen, living room, and bedroom—quickly and efficiently, covering each other as they went.
The house was empty.
Satisfied that they were alone and that no one was going to suddenly pop up from behind the couch and start shooting, Burke stuck his head out the back door and gave the signal for the rest of the squad to join them.
Once the men had assembled inside, with the unconscious Manning laid out on the farmhouse’s only bed, Burke split the rest of the team into pairs for a more detailed search of the property. He didn’t want any surprises in the middle of the night, and the best way to avoid that was to know exactly what they were getting themselves into.
Right away they discovered evidence that someone had been there before them, and recently, too. Williams found an empty bottle of wine, a few drops of liquid still clinging to the inside of the glass, under the bed where someone might have kicked it accidentally. According to Sergeant Moore, the coals in the fireplace were no more than two, maybe even only one day old. The big find of the day, though, was a sack that contained a slab of cured meat, several potatoes, and two bottles of wine; they were discovered when Corporal Compton noticed a loose board in the floor of the living room and pulled it up to see what was hidden underneath.
From a tactical standpoint the farmhouse had some pretty solid advantages. It was isolated, standing in a small clearing all by itself, with a clear line of approach on all sides. It would be nearly impossible for anyone to sneak up on them. A single forest road provided access, ending in a small clearing in front of the house. Tire tracks in the mud of the clearing showed that there had been at least one, possibly two large vehicles parked there recently. Charlie thought the tracks looked like those from a two- or three-ton lorry, but Burke wouldn’t have known the difference even if he’d had the actual tires right there in front of his face. He took his sergeant’s word for it and let it go.
There was a porch attached to the front of the house, and beyond that a small yard enclosed by a stone fence that stood about waist-high. There was an opening in the fence that lined up with the front door and served as a gate. When Burke paced off the distance between the fence and the house, he found it was about thirty feet, which gave them some room to defend themselves if the need arose.
Out behind the house was a chicken coop, currently empty, and a toolshed. Judging by the state of disrepair of both structures, they’d been that way for several months at least.
Given that it was already nightfall, any smoke coming from the chimney would be hard to see, so Burke gave Sergeant Moore permission to use the fireplace to whip up some dinner for the squad. Charlie immediately took control of the entire bundle of food that Compton had discovered and got to work making a stew, using one of the bottles of wine as a broth, leaving the other to be shared with the meal. While the meal was cooking, Clayton Manning finally regained consciousness, and, much to Burke’s relief, he seemed to have avoided serious injury.
“What’s your name?” Compton asked him, as Burke looked on from the doorway.
“Clayton Charles Xavier Manning the third,” the former big game hunter answered and with that one reply managed to eliminate any concerns either Doc Compton or Captain Burke might have had about his mental faculties.
No way could he be suffering from brain damage if he can remember a name like that, Burke thought.
Compton ran through a few simple tests of dexterity and motor function—asking Manning to tell him how many fingers he was holding up, having him touch the forefinger on each hand to his nose, and walk across the room in a straight line—before pronouncing him fit enough to travel. Sergeant Moore’s initial diagnosis had been correct; Manning had woken up with a terrible headache, but otherwise he was fine.
Dinner was eaten in shifts with those not gulping down their portions of the meal guarding the property. From Burke’s view, all the evidence they’d uncovered so far in the house suggested that whoever had been here most likely intended to return. To make sure they weren’t caught with their pants down when that happened, Burke set up a rotating watch schedule for the rest of the evening, with two men awake at all times, one watching the front of the house and the road while the other monitored the rear approach through the woods.
The night passed quietly. When it was his turn to sit watch, Burke settled into a chair in front of the window in the kitchen and watched the road, his thoughts on what was to come. They knew the location of the camp, so if the partisans didn’t show by midmorning, Burke intended to set out on their own. Every day Jack spent in the company of the enemy was one more day that the enemy had to discover his connection to the president. Hell, for all Burke knew, Freeman’s secret had already been discovered and everything Burke and his men had done to date had been for nothing!
Thinking that way’s not going to help anyone, he scolded himself. Stay positive until you have reason to be otherwise. These men are looking to you for their cues, and it won’t do to be dragging down morale.
He focused instead on trying to figure out a way to get Freeman back to friendly lines after they broke him out of the POW camp. With the downing of the Victorious, the original plan to have the airship return for them was no longer possible. Nor did it make sense for them to try to cover the distance on foot. After busting down the walls of the prison camp, they’d have half the Germany army after them. Eventually, they’d be tracked down and captured.
No, he thought, studying the map, walking will never do. What they needed was some kind of mechanical transport. If they could steal a truck or maybe even a plane, they could cover more distance in quicker fashion, increasing their odds overall. Of course, they’d have to find it before they could steal it.
He was still looking for a suitable solution when he sensed movement to his left.
“Rumor has it that you don’t like him much.”
Burke turned to see Manning standing there in the semidarkness. “Like who?” Burke asked.
“Your brother. Jack.”
Burke scowled. “He’s not my brother.”
“Okay, fine,” Manning said. “Your half brother then.”
Burke looked back down at the map he’d been studying, then back at Manning. “What’s it to you?”
“I’ve known Jack for several years. I’m risking my life to save him. It makes a difference to me that the man’s own brother might not see the value in doing the same.”
“Anyone who’s known Jack for more than ten minutes would know he’s an arrogant jackass who hasn’t had an unselfish thought in decades, so no, I don’t see the value in r
isking all our lives to save him,” Burke replied.
Manning was silent for a moment, then asked, “So what happened?”
Burke scowled. “Jack happened, that’s what. Now if you don’t mind, I have work to do.” He returned to staring at the map and when he looked up a few moments later, Manning was gone.
The comment lingered though. “Rumor has it that you don’t like him much.”
No, he didn’t. Didn’t like him at all, in fact. The man’s reckless behavior and irresponsible nature had plagued him throughout childhood and had nearly destroyed him as an adult.
What Manning said was true. They were half brothers—they shared the same mother—but that’s where the similarity between them ended. Jack came from a life of wealth and privilege in the Hamptons on Long Island. His father, a member of the country club set who’d met their mother when she’d been working as a chambermaid, had married her on a whim and had just as easily divorced her two years later. He’d taken his son with him when he left, letting the boy be raised by a succession of live-in nannies until he was old enough to go to boarding school. At that time an arrangement was made. Jack would be registered under his mother’s maiden name to help keep his identity secret and in order to not have the divorce affect his father’s growing political career. In return, the boy would spend two months every summer with his mother and his half brother, Michael, at their little house in New Jersey.
Eloise Freeman had remarried by then, taking the last name Burke. Her new husband, Sam, was a solid, dependable sort, a few years older and a good bit wiser than her previous husband, and a man who would have moved mountains for his wife and four-year-old son. Their happiness was short-lived, however, for an accident on the factory floor left her husbandless for the second time in her life and their young son, Michael, without a father.
Things might have been different had Sam lived, Burke knew. His father had a way of reaching people with his strong but gentle manner, and Jack might have taken other paths had he been influenced during those formative years the way Michael had. Instead, Jack’s sense of entitlement and his constant need for approval from his mostly absent father made him an angry, spoiled child, one his mother had difficulty controlling. That attitude heavily influenced the boys’ relationship, for Jack often took his frustration out on his younger brother. As they’d grown older, their differences gained a nasty, competitive flavor, the two men goading each other into behavior that even a blind man could see would never turn out well.
They might have continued that way indefinitely if it hadn’t been for that fateful night in the summer of 1913. Burke had been dating Linda Mae Stevens, Mae to her friends, for two years by then, and they had plans to marry the following spring. They’d been out at a dance hall together when Jack had shown up looking for them. He told them that Eloise had fallen off a ladder, bumped her head, and had been admitted to the county hospital with a possible concussion. The three of them had piled into the car and driven to the hospital, but since visiting hours were over, only family was allowed in to see her. Having already lost one parent and worried sick about the other, Burke agreed to let his half brother drive his fiancée home.
It was a decision he would come to regret.
Along the way, Freeman convinced Mae to stop off and have a drink with him. One drink led to two, two to three, and before they knew it they were both a bit drunk. From what Burke would hear later, Freeman began to mouth off to a group of local factory workers, who in turn didn’t care for the slick rich-boy attitude he was throwing in their faces. More than a little drunk themselves, the foursome decided to teach Freeman and his girlfriend a lesson. They waited until Jack and Mae left the bar and then intercepted them in the dark parking lot. While two of them beat Jack with their fists and stomped him with their work boots, the others put a scare into Mae, groping her with their hands and intimidating her with their size. By all indications they didn’t intend her any real physical harm, but Mae didn’t know that, and she reacted as if her life depended on it.
Breaking away from the two of them, she raced through the darkness between several parked cars and out onto the street, possibly hoping to wave down an oncoming car.
The driver of the truck that hit her claimed later not to have seen her until it was too late.
Mae’s body had been tossed aside like so much discarded waste. In the wake of the accident, the assailants scattered, leaving Jack unconscious and Mae bleeding to death in the street.
Burke’s eyes were dry as he remembered that night, the pain and misery he’d felt burned away by all the anger he’d harbored since. He’d spent the rest of that terrible evening at his mother’s side, only learning of the death of his fiancée when Jack called from the county jail, having been picked up by the police in the wake of the accident.
How you feel about Jack, good or bad, doesn’t matter, he reminded himself for what was probably the tenth time since taking the mission. His half brother’s status as a POW put the country in danger, and the Intelligence Division’s fears couldn’t be allowed to come to fruition. It was as simple as that.
One way or another, he would see to it that Jack’s presence in that camp was no longer a threat to the president or to the country itself.
One way or another . . .
Chapter Thirty-one
THE FARMHOUSE
Compton woke him shortly after sunrise the next morning with a hand on his arm.
“Got a truck coming down the road, sir,” the doc said when he saw that he had the captain’s attention.
“Wake the others,” Burke told him, as he grabbed his Tommy gun and headed for the kitchen.
Sergeant Moore was standing near one of the windows, looking out through a small gap in the curtains, when Burke slipped into the room.
“What have we got?” Burke whispered, as he took up position at the other window.
“Two-ton lorry. One man in the cab. Back of the truck is covered with a tarp.”
As Burke looked out the window he was just in time to watch the driver in question bring the truck to a stop facing the front of the house. Burke couldn’t see the driver’s face clearly through the windshield, but something about the man’s posture gave him the sense that he was looking at something above their heads.
It took Burke a moment to figure it out.
Smoke.
They’d let the fire die down earlier that morning, but there must still be a thin trail of smoke coming out of the chimney, and it had apparently caught the driver’s eye.
After another moment’s hesitation, the driver opened the door and climbed down from the lorry’s cab.
He was dressed simply in a dark shirt, trousers, and black boots. He wore a thick workman’s coat, the kind that fell below the waist, and had a plaid cap on his head over his curly hair.
He took a few steps forward and shouted something toward the house in French.
“Bonjour! Quelq’un personne est ici?”
“What’s he saying?” Charlie whispered.
Burke shook his head. He’d picked up a fair bit of French over the years, but the man’s accent was too thick for him to understand.
Outside, the newcomer paused, then yelled again.
“Quelq’un personne est ici?”
To Burke it sounded like the same phrase as before, but he couldn’t be certain.
Moving a few steps away from the window allowed Burke to see the rest of the house as he checked the position of his men, nodding in approval at what he saw. Jones and Manning were watching the back, while Williams and Compton had each taken one of the side windows, checking to be certain that no one tried to flank them through the trees. That left only Professor Graves. Since he’d admitted that he wasn’t all that great a shot, Burke decided to hold him back in case of emergency, which was why he was now crouched beside the bed, keeping his head down but watching the others to see if he was needed.
Satisfied, Burke stepped back over to the window. The Frenchman hadn’t moved; he stil
l stood facing the house, an uncertain expression on his face.
“Time to meet the locals,” Burke said beneath his breath, then opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. He had the strap of the Tommy gun over his right shoulder and was holding on to the grip with his right hand. This allowed him to keep the weapon ready without having to hold it out in front of him, something that was sure to be seen as aggressive. He pulled the door shut behind him with his free hand.
No surprise showed on the Frenchman’s face at Burke’s appearance, though he did glance behind him at his truck.
Burke did the same, but didn’t see anything, and so dismissed it as simple nervousness on the other man’s part. Perhaps he was making sure we aren’t sneaking up behind him.
After glancing around and double-checking they were still alone, Burke descended the steps and slowly made his way across the yard toward the Frenchman.
As he drew closer, the other man spoke up in halting English and asked, “Capitan Burke?”
The sound of his own name caused some of Burke’s tension to dissipate. There was only one person this far behind enemy lines who would know who he was and that was their contact from the local partisan group. Apparently Pierre, if that was even his real name, hadn’t given up on them, after all, despite their late arrival.
Let’s hope he doesn’t want his wine back.
“That’s right, I’m Burke,” he replied, pointing to himself with his mechanical hand as he said his name so there wouldn’t be any mistake.
Pierre glanced behind him again. This time, when he turned back, his hand dipped suddenly into the pocket of the jacket he was wearing.
Alarm bells went off in Burke’s head.
He threw himself to the side just as the gun secreted inside the pocket of the Frenchman’s coat went off, the bullet whizzing past Burke’s head with only inches to spare.
Burke’s finger tightened on the trigger of his own weapon even as he was falling. The Tommy gun roared and a stream of bullets stitched their way across Pierre’s chest, causing him to jerk and shake with their impact.
By the Blood of Heroes Page 22