The Cestus Contract: Weir Codex Book 2
Page 24
Before the young man could begin the tale, a strange flashing light, reflected off of the highly-polished windshield frame of the Mercedes, caught Heydrich’s attention just as a peasant stepped away from a tram stop and directly into the vehicle’s path.
“Sir?” quizzed Klein’s voice.
Heydrich’s order to run the man down died on his lips as the thin Czech with murder in his bright blue eyes jerked a machine gun from beneath a tattered raincoat and took deadly aim.
*****
In the blink of an eye, time slammed into slow motion for Captain Ian MacAndrew, causing the half-second between each of Valcik’s frantic mirror flashes to elongate into what seemed like long, painful minutes to the old soldier.
With agonizing clarity he saw Gabcik stride confidently out into the path of the oncoming Nazi command vehicle, slowly raise the black steel barrel of his Sten machine gun and squeeze the trigger lovingly as Johannes Klein stomped down on the car’s brakes, tossing up gravel and dust in a vicious spray behind them.
MacAndrew could feel the blood pumping in his veins and his heart leap up into his chest as a huge Horch 108 military transport, loaded with a squad of ten heavily armed Wehrmach soldiers eased its way around the hairpin turn not far from Valcik. The SS troops were still far enough away that the rebels could all make it out alive if Gabcik made a clean kill.
“Shoot him!” yelled MacAndrew with a voice stretched out in an indecipherable bellow, eyes tracking back to the small man who carried all hope of success on his bony shoulders.
The sound of the gun’s slide jamming caused time to explode back to full speed around the now screaming Scotsman.
Staring face to face, eye to wide open eye, with Heydrich’s driver, Gabcik struggled to unlock the slide of his machine gun, but the weapon refused to budge. The young Czech could see the Nazi officer unholster a luger with his right hand as he stood up out of the convertible’s open-air top.
“Hovno,” was all he could mutter before Klein opened up with the small handgun and he had to dive for cover. What felt like a punch to the chest knocked Gabcik flat to the ground and a searing pain in his shoulder announced that he’d been hit by at least one nine millimeter slug from the Nazi’s counterattack.
In the seconds the exchange had taken, MacAndrew burst from his concealment in the thick hedge wall, covered the ten or so yards to where the Czech soldier had fallen, dropped to one knee and began firing at the still idling Mercedes-Benz with his Australian-made machine gun. His barrage of hot lead shattered the car’s windshield, peppering Klein with glass, and forcing the German to duck down behind the dashboard for cover.
“Everyone, fire!” commanded MacAndrew, ejecting a spent clip from the now steaming Owen gun and snapping a replacement in place. The Scotsman continued his withering attack on the vehicle and was joined by the sound of Lieutenant Opalka’s Sten gun from across the street.
The Nazi’s vehicle was being shredded by the relentless stream of bullets from two sides, its hood blown open with a geyser of steam from a pierced radiator, and doors resembling a fine Swiss cheese. A burst of return fire from somewhere within the Mercedes by one of the trapped Nazis was the only indication that something still lived within the heap.
MacAndrew grinned to himself from behind the now red hot barrel of his gun. Another moment and they’d have the bastard dead to rights. They’d all make it out alive…
The report from a round of heavy machine gun fire in the distance, followed by a gut-wrenching scream, punched MacAndrew in his stomach and destroyed his hope. One of the soldiers in the approaching Horch transport had spotted Valcik’s hiding spot. A pair of MG42 machine guns swung around in the hands of two powerful Wehrmacht soldiers and ended the life of the lookout in a blaze of nearly four hundred high powered rounds, leaving behind a pile of red meat that bore little resemblance to the man it once had been.
An instant later, Opalka’s weapon was knocked from his grip as a lucky shot fired by Heydrich in the rear of the car struck him in the forearm.
“Curda, back Opalka up, man!” ordered the still-kneeling Captain between bursts of rapidly dwindling rounds from his gun.
“He’s gone!” called back the wounded Czech lieutenant, sliding behind the stone bench for cover, his gun covered in blood and forgotten in the bullet-riddled grass he had been shot on. “The little bastard ran off!”
“Shite,” was all Ian MacAndrew could mutter, his attention split between the two men returning fire from within the besieged, battle-damaged roadster, and the gouts of flame he could see from the quickly approaching Nazi trooper carrier. “Kubis, blow the bastards up.”
Nodding, the young Czech shoved his smoking pistol into his belt, slid the satchel around from his back, and removed one of the modified anti-tank grenades the crew had fashioned for their mission. At the same time, MacAndrew yanked the wounded Gabcik to his feet and began pulling the man back toward the relative safety of the hedge wall and the bicycles the men had waiting. A quick hand-signal to Opalka sent the lieutenant off in another direction.
A heavy round of fire from MacAndrew’s machine gun kept the two Nazis ducked down far enough into their vehicle for Kubis to lob his short-fused explosive onto the running board of the ravaged Mercedes-Benz.
The last thing the big Scotsman saw before he was engulfed in the thick brush was Kubis hauling mail after him and Oberscharfuhrer Klein bolt upright in the front seat, taking aim at the Czech’s back with his 9mm Luger, never noticing the grenade at his feet.
The force of the explosion a second later sent all three assassins stumbling to their knees as they reached their bikes. The acrid smell of burning flesh and rubber and steel, and the shrill sounds of Germans screaming brought a tight smile the eyes of Ian MacAndrew, rekindled hope in the man an instant before it was extinguished once more.
Over the sound of fire, Ian MacAndrew heard the voice of the Butcher of Prague call for their deaths.
“Ride hard, my lads,” huffed the Scotsman as the trio peddled down a cobblestone road towards the heart of Liben, “…because the Butcher is still alive!”
Continued in “Man With The Iron Heart” Available January 2014