A sound.
Percy’s finger wrapped around the trigger. He waited, his eyes bearing into the darkness.
Nothing. Moments ticked by.
He heard it again. Still nothing showed.
Percy made the snap decision that he needed to move. Yes—he would take the fight to them. He did not care how many there were. He would always be better stalking than being stalked.
Ever since his father took him on that first hunting trip into Rabinaud Valley fifty years ago, Percy had practiced the art of hunting. All those days creeping through snow, watching for tiny signs, disappearing into the breeze—it had all been leading to this. His life as a hunter was one long preparation, and now Percy was ready to hunt the ultimate game. He very slowly inched away from his cover, imperceptible to Michel below.
A water vole munching on clumps of grass near the lake shore made just enough noise to sound like a man skulking through the undergrowth. Percy pressed on, taking a line up the slope, away from the water. There was about fifty yards of good tree cover from the lake shore before the foliage thinned out to bushes, grass and rock. He moved slowly and watchfully. He controlled his breathing to a regular and even rhythm. He gave away nothing and took in everything.
He had been on the move for fifteen minutes, creeping inch by inch. Calculating distance at night was nigh impossible, but Percy knew he had not gone far. He figured one hundred and fifty yards, given he was not yet in line with the cliffs lit up on the distant side of the lake. He stopped and listened.
He heard nothing. Too much nothing. The crickets had gone quiet.
A whooping owl called, then pushed into flight, soaring across the surface of the lake. Percy moved stealthily to a position where a gray fur stood next to an outcrop of stone. He eased himself into a crouching stance, raised his rifle and waited.
Somewhere ahead, a dry twig snapped. Percy had to suppress a sharp intake of breath as the adrenaline tore through his body. He did not let his mind stray from the simple focus on outside stimulus, and trusted what it was his senses were telling him—and they were telling him they were coming.
And close. Percy’s finger wrapped around the rifle trigger. He had one in the chamber, four in the magazine. With the German pistol he had souvenired, that made thirteen bullets.
A shape. Percy blinked rapidly to wash away the haze of an old man’s weakening focus, but it was still there. A phantom tempted the edges of darkness forty-five yards away. Percy breathed and turned his head to the side to use his peripheral vision. Still there.
The indistinct mass very slowly formed into the shape of a man. The green camouflage of the German tunic gave off almost no reflection, but at forty yards Percy saw the unmistakable outline of a face. Two yards beneath the first, a second phantom filtered from the night. Percy thought he heard others. Two, maybe three.
Thirty-eight feet and Percy could see the dark hollows of eyes. Now was the moment to fire, but he waited.
Thirty-six yards. He watched the eyes.
Thirty-four yards. Eyes of an ordinary man, a small man. Percy would kill him just the same, for they were German eyes.
The man stopped. His hand rose slowly, signaling the others. All was still. He scanned the darkness, passing over Percy’s position without recognition and up the ridge, but then his head stopped and turned, his gaze moving back toward Percy.
When their eyes met there was a split second of terrible knowing, man seeing man, and it was the eyes that screamed before the mouth.
“Hin—” began the German’s cry, like the wail of an air-raid siren on its first wind.
Percy squeezed the final millimeter on the trigger.
Boom!
A slug exploded from the barrel and within milliseconds was ripping through the German’s chest. Percy did not move from his position. He worked the bolt on the 45-70 and another round slid into the chamber. He moved his aim ten degrees. It all took less than a second, enough time for another German to scream “Hinterhalt!” and for his Mauser to pull into his shoulder, level—
Boom!
A second German careened backward from the force of all that lead smashing through his sternum. His Mauser fired harmlessly into the sky, the last act of a dead man. The muzzle flash was enough light to give Percy an impression of two more men. They threw their bodies to the ground. Percy was yet to move an inch from his position. As he worked another round into his rifle, the Germans opened up.
Crack. Crack.
One slug whistled by, a yard from Percy’s head, and the other thumped into the rock in front of him, showering splinters of granite. It was the aim of haste. There was no time to waste—Percy had to make his move before the Germans’ training kicked in and they established a defensive formation. Percy stood tall and used the extra height to isolate his next target.
Crack.
Another slug whistled by Percy, this time just inches from his chest, but it gave him all the light he needed to settle his aim.
Boom!
Lead ripped through the German’s shoulder and he instantly flipped over, writhing, screaming from the shock of being hit. Percy worked the bolt furiously.
Crack.
Boom!
Percy’s slug tore through the top of the wounded and now dead man’s skull, down the neck and through the torso to stop inside his gut, while a smaller bullet came in the opposite direction and slammed into Percy’s side just beneath his rib cage. It was like a strongman hit him with a tiny hammer of incredible mass. He staggered backward.
A fifth German, unseen, blasted from the distance then started running, crashing through the undergrowth in the direction of the shoreline. Percy slumped to his knee. Warm blood trickled down his side. He raised his rifle and aimed at the darkness where he had seen a muzzle flash before being hit.
Crack.
The bullet whizzed past Percy’s cheek, but now he had him. He squeezed down. The explosion of the rifle felt huge in his hands and he realized he had missed, for he was unsteady with the adrenaline and the pain and the blood pumping from his gut. He cranked the bolt, sure there were more bullets and intent upon using them, but his grip was weak and his hand jittery, and he knew there was no more to be done with the 45-70.
He threw the rifle to the ground and pulled the pistol from his belt. It was slippery, coated by a thin film of blood. He launched to his feet and ran with all the fury his old legs could muster, willing himself to forget the bullet in his side and he did, because there was a man ahead and it was kill or be killed.
He raised the pistol and the Kraut fired and Percy thought he had missed but did not know. Percy closed to fifteen feet, whites of eyes, and pop, pop pop, such quaint little sounds, yet the German slumped unto himself and Percy immediately turned for the shoreline.
The fifth man had made a desperate run, breaking from the cover of trees onto the thin wedge of shore along the lake and was now sprinting toward the dam wall. A leather strap tugged at his chest as a bag bounced up and down on his back to the fevered rhythm of his stride.
Percy ran from the trees. He was slow, so much slower than the German and getting slower, for his strength ebbed rapidly with the tide of blood rushing from his wound. Percy realized he was at least thirty yards behind and there was no chance of closing. But he could not let the man make the dam.
Percy stopped in the muddy soil and crouched. He tried to incorporate the pain into his breathing, each sharp intake of breath followed by a sharp lance of agony in his side and gut, and somehow he found a rhythm. He raised the pistol. The sound of the German sprinting over the soft ground seemed so loud in the quiet of the night. Percy focused and hoped. He squeezed down and kept squeezing, pop, pop pop pop.
The fourth slug smashed into the sachet on the Kraut’s back. The explosion was instant, an invisible wall of air that threw Percy from his feet and into the shallows, followed by a wall of flame—a monstrous hemisphere of fire spreading outwards that sucked upwards and dragged vertical into the sky.
For a few seconds the fireball lit the drowned glacial valley and the enormous surface of water seemed aflame. As the echoes of the blast chased shadows north into the mountains and south along the valley toward Oraon, a brief and surreal silence descended.
37
The truck was almost loaded, but Kranz could not let his guard down. One miscalculated comment like the stupid gaffe with his name and the whole charade would unravel.
The problem was that the man named Ernie would not shut up. Kranz would have happily loaded the crates in steely silence—customary for Germans—but such a thing was impossible with Ernie who, of all things, wanted to talk about the recent Vitrimont outbreak.
“That’s what messed everything up in the first place,” said Ernie. “If they hadn’t shut the roads down on account of the outbreak I would have been three hundred miles away by now. You know, I was only there a week ago, not even that. Part of a convoy transporting a few hundred prisoners from Saint Mel.
“Our armed guard was one lad with a rifle. On a motorbike! Three hundred Krauts fresh off the front and one scared-shitless kid with a gun, but not a single prisoner tried to escape. Then soon as they get inside the bloody camp with all its guards, that’s when they tried it on. It’s madness, mate.” Ernie paused for a second and wiped a light sheen of sweat from his forehead. “At least if they’d had a go on the way, I wouldn’t be stuck here now. Then again, I might be dead.”
Ernie had the bad habit of stopping work as he spoke. He walked over and grabbed another crate; Kranz dared to venture a question: “Is there news of the outbreak? Did they capture all the prisoners?”
“I think on the first day they rounded up most of them. Not sure if they’ve mopped up all the stragglers yet. Hey, Vicq!” yelled Ernie.
Vicq poked his head from the back of the truck.
“What happened with those escaped prisoners? Catch ’em all?” said Ernie.
Vicq spoke some English, but not as fluently as Kranz. “No. Reserve looking. Got one all way at Belfort!”
“Bloody hell, that’s not bad going,” said Ernie.
“Maybe five, ten still outside,” said Vicq.
“And what are they doing with them? The ones they recapture,” said Kranz.
“They shoot. Bang,” yelled Vicq as he pretended to fire a gun. “No. Put back in camp. Then shoot!”
Ernie laughed and Kranz smiled, but it was not much of a smile.
“Ernie, you in big hurry or no? Poor Michel sweat more than you. And he is old. No offense,” said Vicq.
“You only speak the truth,” said Kranz.
“Listen, some bastard’s got to supervise unskilled workers such as yourselves. I’m the overseer. Make sure the job gets done right,” said Ernie.
As Kranz placed a crate on the tray of the truck, Vicq said in French, “Michel, where are you from? I cannot place your accent.”
“Oh? Well, obviously I’m not from here. Yes, not from here. Actually, I’m from … Andorra. I grew up there, but that was quite a while ago.”
“Ah, ok,” said Vicq and nodded, as if the explanation made perfect sense.
Ernie dumped a crate onto the truck’s tray. “Fair go, fellas. If you’re gonna swear at me, you can at least do it in English so I can enjoy the ‘repartee’,” said Ernie with a theatrical shake of his head.
“Yes. We say what ugly man you are!” said Vicq. “No, we talk about Michel. He is Andorran. Not many Andorrans. Is rare. Like dodo.”
“Andorra,” said Ernie. “Where the hell’s that? I thought Andorrans were a breed of goat.”
♦
The guard lent his rifle against the wire mesh. He thought he had seen something, and he was right. He squatted, looking over the cut strands of wire. He plucked a piece of fabric from the end of a sheared strand. The fence had been cut.
He knew it could not have been earlier in the afternoon or a previous day, for someone would surely have noticed already. It had to be recent. It had to have been that evening.
The guard stood up and swung the strap of his rifle around his shoulder. It was not long since he had seen a man near the fence, probably not far from where he now stood. A man with a slight limp. He had looked like a normal worker. But if that man had broken in, the real question was why.
With the Vitrimont outbreak at the back of his mind and the knowledge that they lived in increasingly strange times, the guard resolved to make a quick search for the man before leaving the area and reporting the breach. He walked away at a brisk pace, eyes scanning yards and buildings. He headed west, the same direction the man had walked.
♦
They were almost done. Kranz slid a crate onto the deck of the truck. As Kranz turned and started back for the last crate, his attention was caught by a man briskly approaching. He was still a hundred yards away, but Kranz could see the rifle slung around his shoulder.
Kranz kept moving. There was no way to know if the guard was coming for him or not. The last crate was out of the guard’s line of sight. Kranz took his time. He slowly picked it up, as if fatigued.
“All right, mate. Last one!” said Ernie.
Kranz started back with the crate. He looked ahead, focusing on the truck. The guard had closed and was again in his line of sight. If he had been made, there was no point messing around, so he turned his head and met the guard’s gaze. Something like recognition—at the least suspicion—flashed across the guard’s face, whose pace quickened. Kranz continued to the truck and slid the crate onto the boards. Vicq jumped down as Ernie pushed the crate into place.
“Ok, I must go,” Kranz said in a brusque manner.
“Well, thanks mate,” said Ernie, extending his hand. “It’s much appreciated. I’d buy you a beer, but—”
“Look!” exclaimed Vicq, interrupting Ernie and pointing to the east. “Look!”
The eastern sky was illuminated with a brilliant orange glow above the mountains. The men kept watching, Kranz included, well after the dying light disappeared to once again leave the night sky dark.
“Holy shit, what was that?” said Ernie.
And then the thunder rolled in. While the light had traveled almost instantaneously from its source to where the men stood, the sonic freight train had taken time. A wall of sound hurtling forward, gouging through valleys, ricocheting off faces of rock, spilling across ridges. Finally the wave of thunder reached the foothills of Oraon and swept over the men. It passed as quickly as it came, leaving stunned silence in its wake.
Ernie, Vicq, Kranz, even the guard, immobile fifty yards away, stood gazing into the night in expectant silence. It was Vicq who eventually spoke and answered Ernie’s question.
“The dam … Maybe they attack hydro dam.”
A multitude of thoughts hit Kranz at once. Finally it all made sense. A hydro-electric dam, the source of the huge volumes of power needed for the Oraon war industries. A dam that would destroy the town and destroy the factories. That was the real plan and had been all along. He was just the insurance—the contingency for failure.
It did not matter. He had a mission, and he intended to complete it whether or not there was a wall of water on its way to devour everything that lay in its path. Besides, it would take time to get there. Maybe just enough time to complete his mission and escape.
Kranz and the guard turned at the same time. They met each other’s gaze. The guard ran forward and brought the rifle from his shoulder. Kranz reached into his pocket. The guard worked the rifle’s bolt and a round slammed into the chamber. Kranz drew open the blade of his stolen knife. The guard raised the rifle to his shoulder. Kranz placed the blade between the thumb and index finger of his forehand.
“Stop! Stop!” screamed the guard.
He was only twenty yards away. Ernie and Vicq stared in shock, struggling to understand both what they had seen over the mountains and what was unfolding before their very eyes. Kranz’s arm flicked back and forth in an effortless motion, not unlike the sling-shot action of a laconic baseball pitc
her.
The guard tried to bring his rifle up and aim but instead he fell forward, a shining blade dug deep into his chest. He was still dropping when Vicq launched himself at Kranz. Vicq was small and he moved quick—quick enough that Ernie was standing dumbfounded and Kranz was just coming out of his throwing stance.
But Kranz had already figured he would have to deal with his two workmates. That was the difference between Kranz and other men who knew how to fight—the composure to see beyond the immediate.
Vicq lowered his body into a charge and cannonballed himself at Kranz’s chest, throwing his arms out and readying for impact.
Kranz responded with simple efficiency. He planted his feet and turned his hips just a little. His upper body swung around and all he did was help Vicq on his way, lifting him with his own momentum so that he flipped in the air. His body carried past Kranz, and he landed heavy and awkward on his back four feet away.
Vicq scrambled to get back on his feet, but he was too slow. With a one–two skip, Kranz’s leg raised and cocked by the time Vicq was half-risen. The heel of his shoe caught Vicq flush in the face as his leg snapped out then back. The blow was devastating. Vicq’s head slapped into the concrete. Consciousness had left him before he even came to rest.
Kranz turned. The big man would be harder.
Ernie had finally wrenched himself from his stupor. He picked up a piece of timber, two yards of four-by-two. “Come on, then,” said Ernie.
There was a commotion in the distance. A woman from the adjacent building had seen the guard slumped on the ground and raised the alarm.
None of this mattered to Kranz. He could only work methodically and calmly at one problem at a time. The big Australian seemed to want him to approach and attack, but Kranz would not. He would make Ernie attack, for there lay his weakness.
It took no encouragement for Ernie to do just that. He approached with great strides, surprisingly nimble for such a big man. Kranz readied himself by staying relaxed and light on his feet. Ernie raised the length of timber aloft like a man wielding a bastard sword. It was an exaggerated movement that told of fury, not composure, and that was the moment when Kranz rushed forward in a blur.
Michel And Henry Go To War (The French Bastard Book 1) Page 17