Dannecker let the old man slip back down the wall and stood up. He wiped his hand on his leg, picked up his rifle, and then stepped out of the hut and back into the rain. He took out his Walther, worked the slide, looked back into the hut, and shot the old policeman dead.
The dead were always good at keeping secrets.
The rain had eased off, and away across the far side of the city, heading inland, the sky was turning a watercolor dawn of shifting shades of cloud.
Forty minutes after leaving Kings Dock, the Bear fired up the truck on which the gold was already loaded and waiting. He listened to the lumpy idle of the cold engine until it settled into a rough rhythm.
He jumped down from the cab and used the sleeve of his coat to wipe away the thick layer of coal dust that had settled across the windscreen. The warehouse where he’d hidden the gold was next to a coal yard and loading dock.
It was also less than half a mile from where the U.S. Navy ship sat waiting.
He wiped his hands on his damp chest.
He wasn’t running away; he was running toward new challenges.
He was the Bear, and bears don’t run away.
“Bear’s charge,” he said out loud, then felt a little foolish and inspected his hands for dirt.
The coal dust had settled everywhere and on everything. It lay like black gold in puddles where the warehouse roof was letting in rain, and it clung like mud to his hands, mouth, and nose as he went around the back of the truck to check the ropes and tarpaulin that were securing the precious cargo.
Once satisfied all was well, he crossed to the heavy wooden sliding doors, set his shoulder to one of them, and eased it back just far enough to be able to stick his head outside. The street was deserted. He leaned into the door again and opened it fully. He ran back to the truck and climbed up into the cab. It was an old beat-up Bedford that sounded like it was running on a couple of cylinders less than it should, and as he sat down another cloud of coal dust puffed up into the air. He revved the engine, crunched a gear, and pulled out of the warehouse.
“Bear’s charge,” he said again, this time a little louder.
Rossett had carried Iris almost the entire length of the tunnel after the bomb had exploded.
She was as light as dry kindling and felt almost as brittle.
For all that, when he had stumbled twice in the dark he had dropped her. She hadn’t cried out once. Instead, she had simply held out her hands and waited to be taken up into his arms to be carried forward to the next fight.
She was tougher than she looked.
Including Rossett, there were just twelve who emerged into Lime Street station nine minutes after the bomb had gone off. Their faces and clothes were caked with the soot and dust dislodged by the explosion and as they climbed up onto one of the platforms, they could have been mistaken for a band of weary miners on their way home after a shift. The resistance looked exhausted; they were carrying either injuries or each other.
Cavanagh jogged passed Rossett and Iris, then stopped at one of the station exits. He wolf-whistled into the dawn, then turned and signaled that Rossett and the rest should wait. Rossett lowered Iris to one of the few remaining benches left on the station concourse.
Someone brought her a canteen of water, and she sipped some and held it out for Rossett.
He shook his head. “Dannecker will be coming for us. Even if he can’t get through the tunnel, he’ll know where it comes out.” Rossett looked back toward the tunnel and ran his hand around his throat.
“He won’t b-be coming.”
“He’s dead?” Rossett looked at Iris.
“If he isn’t, he’s to be arrested.”
“Who said?”
“That was the Luftwaffe who turned up at the end of the fight. They were coming for h-him.”
“Why?”
Iris leaned back on the bench.
“B-because I arranged for one of their men to see the German bodies in the morgue at the hospital. I knew Dannecker would be trying to keep it quiet and that it would make his bosses suspicious if word got back.”
Rossett stared at her a moment, then took the canteen and sat down. He took a drink, poured a little of the water into his hand, rubbed it around the back of his neck and his throat, and then passed her the canteen back.
Iris looked at him. “You owe me.”
“I owe you?”
She didn’t answer straightaway; she was too busy trying to screw the lid back on the canteen. She had to make a couple of attempts to line up the bottle and cap before she was successful.
She looked at him.
“Y-yes, you owe me.”
“For what?”
“For betraying me.”
“I didn’t . . .”
“You were supposed to work with us.”
“I never said that.”
“I don’t c-care what you said, you just were, and you knew it.”
The way she said it made Rossett realize there wasn’t much point in arguing. He brushed a little mud off his coat and rubbed at the bruises around his neck again.
Over by the exit Cavanagh whistled. This time, another whistle echoed back over the rooftops. He glanced over to Iris and held up his thumb.
“I should have you executed,” Iris said quietly.
Rossett looked at her.
She shook her head as she stared off across the station concourse. “I’m not going to, but I should.”
“Why not?”
“Because you have honor, and b-because you were trying to do the right thing for the people of this city.”
“Save lives.”
“Yes,” she said. “Save lives.”
Rossett leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “I’m sorry about the gold.”
“Say it ten m-million times and I might believe you.”
“That much?”
“That much and more.” Iris swung the canteen by its thin leather strap a few times. Rossett heard the water sloshing inside as the strap danced in her twitching fingers. She looked at him again. “If you were the B-Bear, what would you do?”
“Hide.”
She shook her head.
“You w-wouldn’t. Seriously, think, what would you do?”
Rossett stared at the smashed glass scattered all over the floor. A million reflections seemed to offer a million alternate answers. Finally, he replied.
“I’d run.”
“W-where?”
“Abroad.”
“How?”
“The gold.”
She let go with her lopsided grin and nodded.
“Y-you’re not as stupid as you look.”
He smiled back. “You’d be surprised.”
Her smile persisted as Rossett’s faded. He asked, “If you couldn’t find the Bear and the gold before, what makes you think you can find it now?”
“We didn’t know where he had hidden it.” She tapped the side of her skull with a thin finger. “But we do know where he has to t-take it if he w-wants to escape the country. The Huskisson Dock.”
“When?”
Iris looked up at the station clock, out of habit more than reason. Rossett followed her gaze and saw the clock had been badly damaged during the bombing. Just one hand remained, hanging impotent, pointing at the floor.
“In about an hour, a sh-ship, U.S. Navy, is going to sail.”
“U.S. Navy?”
“O’Kane’s people have bought the captain.”
“You think the Bear is going to catch it?”
“Y-you said he would run with the gold. Where else w-would he go?”
“O’Kane?”
“Even if he hasn’t, we’ve got nothing left to lose. The clock is ticking. If that ship sails in an hour and he is left here, he’ll have b-both the resistance and the Germans hunting him down.”
Rossett stood up, reached into his coat pocket, and took out his Webley. He cracked it open and six empty shell casings rattled onto the floor. He carefully started to
reload it with fresh rounds, and once it was full, he clicked it back shut and looked at Iris.
“The only person Bauer has to worry about hunting him is me.”
Chapter 27
Even though the sky was brightening, a soft, smoky gloom hung over the docks like grime on a window. The rain had stopped, but the cobbles still shone like silver turtle backs under the milky last light thrown from the security lamps. The lamps sat on top of the twenty-foot-tall stone wall, which sealed in the Huskisson Dock from Regent Road, which in turn led back to the city center.
Between the wall and the road ran another section of the Overhead Railway. What was left of the Huskisson Dock station sat high up on a platform, like a bombed-out crow’s nest floating above the skeleton of an abandoned ship.
The whole place stank of decay.
A few ships loitered at the quayside, waiting for crews, loads, dockers, or the turning of the tide that would take them away from the place they were lost in.
Liverpool hadn’t quite woken up yet. Even the dirty gulls stood around with hunched shoulders, waiting for things to look better in the light of a new dawn.
The Bear sat in the cab of the truck and stared at the Huskisson Dock gates. They were set halfway along the tall granite wall that ran along Regent Road. One port policeman in a rain-slick black poncho was flanked by three U.S. shore patrolmen, each of whom was carrying a Thompson machine gun and a smartly strapped sidearm.
The Bear knew from experience that normally there would have been HDT on the gate as well. He guessed they had been dispersed by Dannecker to cover the exits out of the city, either in a search for him and Rossett or maybe to prevent prying eyes from watching Dannecker climb the gangway of a U.S. ship.
One of the shore patrol adjusted his Thompson and stepped out of the gates to look down the road toward the city. The Bear leaned back into the shadows of the truck cab and watched as the SP checked the time, then called back to the others.
The clock was ticking; they were worried he wasn’t coming.
The Bear considered the Thompsons the shore patrol were carrying. Normally SP wouldn’t carry firearms when they were off their ship in a foreign country. Normally the worst they would be wielding would be a billy club and a bad attitude.
Guns had a habit of changing plans, as the Bear knew only too well.
No HDT was good. But guns and American SP? That was the unknown. Maybe they were there to kill him and take the gold? Maybe they were there to protect him?
He rested his elbows on the steering wheel and watched them.
One of the SP shared a joke and a cigarette with the port policeman.
It looked like everything was normal.
The Bear didn’t like normal.
But whether he liked it or not, he had less than thirty minutes until the ship sailed on the high tide, which meant he had about fifteen to decide what to do.
Dannecker made his mind up for him.
The car passed him so closely and so fast from behind, it made the truck rock from side to side. The brakes in the little black saloon slammed on, causing it to dip its nose with a sharp nod before the back wheels locked, and it spun in a 180-degree hand-brake turn in front of the Bear’s truck.
Dannecker was climbing out almost before the car had shuddered to a stop.
He fired twice through the Bear’s windscreen with his Walther.
The rounds punched through the glass and into the back of the driver’s seat, just to the right of where the Bear’s spine had been.
Dannecker’s heart was pounding. He stared at the windscreen of the truck with its fresh bullet holes and its crazed glass.
The Bear had ducked out of sight.
Dannecker had been too slow, and now he didn’t know what to do. Move to the right and open a door or move to the left and open a door?
Either option meant he was probably going to end up looking down the barrel of a gun.
Damn.
He fired another round into the metal below the windscreen.
Five rounds left.
Shit.
He took a few steps back toward the car he had hijacked twenty minutes earlier and edged around it, using his free hand to feel the way behind him.
Fuck.
He crouched down on the far side of the car, the pistol held next to his head as he stared through the side windows at the truck. Maybe he had hit the Bear? He took a look toward the dock gates and saw three armed shore patrol officers behind a gatepost.
They weren’t intervening, so he turned back to the truck.
“Bear!” He almost surprised himself by shouting out. It felt like some bit of his brain had a plan but hadn’t told the rest of him about it.
“What?”
The Bear didn’t sound injured.
Dannecker glanced at the SP again. Behind them, through the gap in the gate, he could see a plume of dirty smoke thickening as it rose from the funnel of the American ship.
Dannecker looked back at the truck and saw the driver’s door swing open; a moment later, the passenger door opened. The truck sat staring at him like a charging elephant with its ears thrown wide.
“Bear?” he shouted again.
“I already said ‘what.’”
Dannecker breathed out and shouted back at the truck. “Looks like we have a problem here, Bauer.”
“It does, Major.”
“So how do we find a way around it?”
“You could go home?”
Dannecker smiled, then glanced at the SP again. Behind them, he could see O’Kane looking toward him and Bauer. The Irishman must have been on board, heard the shooting, and come to take a look.
Dannecker waved to O’Kane.
He didn’t wave back.
“What do you want, Major? I’ve a boat to catch!” Bauer shouted to Dannecker, forcing him to concentrate.
“How about we put down our guns and let O’Kane decide who goes with the gold?”
“After you,” Bauer shouted back.
“I’m serious, Captain, let’s both throw out our guns. We could maybe share the reward?”
“Like I said, after you!”
Neither of them threw away their guns. Dannecker took another glance at O’Kane, then knelt and changed the Walther’s magazine for a fresh one.
His hand was shaking. He hadn’t expected that.
He eased his way back up to a crouch.
“We need to make a move, Bauer.”
The Bear didn’t respond.
“One of us needs to be the adult here, find a compromise so that we can all come out of the situation on top.” Dannecker moved a few inches to get a better view of the truck, crouching low, his left hand on the cold steel of the car, his right on the warm steel of the Walther. “There is enough for all of us to be happy, and I’m sure O’Kane can find a spare berth on the—”
He stopped speaking as he felt the muzzle of a gun pressing against the back of his neck.
O’Kane couldn’t take it anymore.
He wasn’t one of life’s watchers, and seeing as the SP had been given orders to remain inside the dock gates unless explicitly under attack, there was nothing for it but to go out there and bring this thing to a close himself.
He was nervous.
Any man who was about to sneak up on another man holding a gun and said he wasn’t nervous was a liar.
And O’Kane was many things, but he wasn’t a liar.
He took out his Browning, flicked the safety off, and started to head for Dannecker.
And then he saw Rossett.
Rossett knew it was easy sneaking up on people who had tunnel vision. Even though he had built a career out of facing things head on, coming up behind Dannecker had been a piece of cake.
“Drop your gun.” Rossett was staring over at the truck as he pressed a little harder with the Webley against Dannecker’s neck.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Dannecker rested his forehead against the car and lowered the Walther to his side.
<
br /> “Drop it,” Rossett whispered.
“Don’t you ever give up?”
“Drop the gun.” Rossett said it slowly, taking his time to drive home each word.
Dannecker let go of the pistol.
“Now what?” Dannecker’s forehead was still resting against the car. “Are you going to tell Bauer to drop his as well?”
“Hands behind your back.”
“You don’t have a plan, do you? How do you take both of us down?”
“Hands.”
“You should have waited till one of us was dead.”
“Now.”
“Hey, Bauer!” Dannecker shouted to the Bear in the truck.
“What?” Bauer’s voice came from the cab.
“Rossett is here.”
“Really?”
“Would I joke?”
Rossett saw the Bear’s head lift a couple of inches to look over the dashboard and then disappear again.
“Lion?”
Rossett didn’t reply.
“Lion!” Bauer tried again.
Rossett was too busy pushing Dannecker down to the ground to answer.
“How are you going to shoot at me while you are fighting with Major Dannecker?”
Rossett set his knee into Dannecker’s back, then started to dig around in his coat pockets for the leather strap he had taken from the water canteen back at the station. “Hands behind your back.”
The truck’s engine fired into life.
Rossett looked up.
The Bear knew he had a chance the second he saw Rossett staring at him over the roof of the car.
For once, two enemies were better than one.
He knocked off the hand brake, reached up to the ignition button with his free hand, then twisted his leg around so that he could press the clutch in. The engine burst into life and he found first gear with a solid clunk from the transmission.
The release of the hand brake had already started the truck moving, so as he lifted off the clutch the engine didn’t stall. Keeping his head down low, he dragged the steering wheel around to the left, and as the truck picked up speed, he aimed it in the vague direction of the dock gates.
He braced himself. Looking up and out of the windscreen, he used the building line as a guide to tell him when to straighten the wheel. He brought his gun to bear and readied himself to shoot at Rossett as the truck completed its turn.
An Army of One: A John Rossett Novel Page 35