“That’s the truth, right? You’re sure?”
“Yes — yes. Only they are going to shoot him in the morning. Please get me to a medic,” the man sobbed.
“You don’t need medical help,” Buddy told him casually as he shot the last American Nazi through the heart.
“That’s cold, Colonel,” Cooper stated in shock. “That’s damn cold.”
“Unless you’ve forgotten, they are all under a death sentence. Their actions put them there, even if my father hadn’t ordered it. And we can’t leave them behind alive. Let’s get out of here.”
Dawn had yet to become a pale pink band on the sawtoothed horizon when Buddy and the teams reached the hacienda. The area had been thoroughly scouted, and surprisingly no OPs had been located. Every Nazi in the area had gathered in the hacienda. Buddy Raines considered his first moves in brooding silence.
“We’ll set up two 2-man mortar positions. One here and one half a click away to the east. They’ll provide cover for the exfiltration.”
They had relieved the Nazis in Villa Ahumada of two old 60mm mortars and ample ammunition. Buddy lapsed deep into thought again. The aerial photos did not provide any info on the layout of rooms inside. His dad could be anywhere. And he had to move damn fast. Perhaps only minutes remained for his father to live.
“Hank, your team will provide the cover fire. Jersey, you and Dad’s team go in first; well be right behind you. Now let’s make tracks while there’s still some darkness down there.”
Buddy Raines jolted along a shallow ravine that ran in the general direction of the hacienda. Jersey and Ben’s team pounded along ahead of them. They reached the walls of the hacienda without detection, though the predawn glow grew steadily. Soundless, on tiptoe, the Rebels entered through a small gate they located in the north wall.
Immediately a drowsy sentry at a small table ten feet away snapped alert and reached for his rifle. “What are you doing out there?” he demanded, confused as to the identity of the troops who so suddenly appeared.
Buddy extended his left arm in a waving gesture that distracted the guard’s gaze and stepped closer. His right hand whipped the Ka-Bar from its sheath and drove it between two of the Nazi’s ribs and into his heart. He caught the body and eased it back onto the chair. With a quick jerk of the bloody knife, he sent the Rebels to spread out through the courtyard.
Jersey found another sentry at a small recessed doorway on the far side of the courtyard. She took him out with a garrote. The dead black-shirt had a set of keys on his belt. Jersey quickly surmised what that might be. She gave a low whistle to the others and started going through them for the right one.
By the time Buddy and the rest of Ben’s team arrived, Jersey had the low door unlocked. She went through it bent double, M-16 leading the way. Cooper followed with his suppressed CAR-15. Instantly he shot over Jersey’s head and splattered a black-shirt against a stone wall. The man died outside the cell assigned to Ben Raines.
In a rush, Jersey went to it and turned the key in the lock, threw aside the bar. The door creaked when she drew it open. The cell was empty.
“Well, General Raines, it is through the goodness of the Führer’s heart that you had this comfortable room to spend your last night on earth,” Peter Volmer spoke oilily, his personal distaste evident in his tone.
“Tell him I am grateful beyond belief.”
“Come, General, no sarcasm. Your uniform has been cleaned and pressed and awaits you. The Führer says that you have proven a worthy adversary. He feels you are entitled to a good rest, a shave and bath, and a good breakfast before your, ah, date with the firing squad.”
“He is too kind,” Ben grated out, mentally counting his last minutes.
“Well, enough of this,” Peter Volmer said lightly. “I’ll leave you to your ablutions and a hearty meal. We’ll meet again . . . for the last time . . . before the parèdón — the firing wall, as I’ve learned from my Latin American friends.”
Volmer left the second-floor room where Ben Raines had been confined and walked along the as-yet-silent corridor. Dawn had not streaked the east and he had his own early breakfast to attend to. What a day! This day would be the ultimate test of Rebel resolve. He had no doubt that they would weaken in the end and give up. The fighting would at last be over and then, soon after that, a tragic accident to Jesus Hoffman would make him, Peter Volmer, Führer of the American Reich.
What a future to contemplate! It put a lightness in his step. Too bad about little Heinzi. But there were other beautiful ones from which to choose. First get rid of Ben Raines, then he would reward himself.
“He’s gone “Jersey gulped, filled with the awful vision that they had arrived too late.
“It’s not daylight yet,” Buddy Raines encouraged. “We will have to get ahold of someone and find out where Dad is.”
“If there’s time, any time at all, I say do it,” Cooper added his support.
“All right, spread out again and bag someone who has some knowledge,” Buddy ordered.
“How about the cooks?” Jersey suggested. Her teammates looked at her as though she had farted in church. “No, hey, listen up. People get fed, right? No matter what is going on, right? And who knows who gets what and where better than the cooks?”
“The cooks it is,” Buddy decided.
Two more Nazi guards died on the search for the kitchen. The Rebels found it at last and burst inside to thoroughly frighten four rotund Mexican women. Their shock set them to gabbling rapid-fire in Spanish. At last, Jersey quieted them enough to ask the important question.
“El General no esta en la célda,” one chubby woman replied soberly to Jersey’s question.
“We know he’s not in his cell,” Jersey answered patiently. “Where is he?”
“Arriba,” the moon-faced cook replied. All three women pointed to the ceiling.
“El segundo piso?” Jersey asked. They all nodded enthusiastically. “All right, gang, we go upstairs,” she told the team.
Buddy, Jersey, and the team found the upstairs deserted. Limpid light glowed from skylights above. Jersey caught her breath when she saw it. They all took different doors, weapons ready, and began to search. Jersey and Buddy came to the arched portal at the end of the hallway first. The door had not latched tightly. Buddy threw it open and Jersey rushed inside, bent low, M-16 ahead of her.
Empty. A corner room, it had windows that opened on the north and west sides. The glass had been raised out of the way, which gave access to the ornately carved and colorfully painted wooden grillwork that blocked the openings. From the one on the north side, recessed in an arch, with a small balcony outside, accessible by French doors to one side, voices rose from the ground below.
“General Benjamin Raines, Commander in Chief of the Rebel forces, you have been tried by the High Reich Tribunal and found guilty of insurrection against the Reich,” came the high, thin voice of Führer Hoffman. “You have been duly and properly sentenced to death by firing squad. It is our duty to carry out that sentence. Have you any last words?”
There followed a familiar and beloved voice that made Jersey’s heart flutter. “Cut the bullshit and let’s get to the chase.”
“Very well,” Führer Hoffman replied tightly. “Hood?”
“You might need it yourself. I hear you get squeamish at the sight of blood.” Ben taunted.
“Enough,” Hoffman grated.
Quickly he and Field Marshal Peter Volmer marched to their assigned positions. The firing commands began.
“Firing squad . . . Attention! . . . Present! . . . Load! . . . Take aim! . . .”
Right then, Jersey knew that time, which had been their enemy in this campaign since Hoffman’s invasion the previous spring, had run out. She squeezed closed her eyes and bit her lip to keep silent the sobs, and whispered a farewell prayer for Ben Raines, the man she secretly loved more than anyone else in the world.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce
this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1993 by William W. Johnstone
Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media
ISBN 978-1-4976-3014-7
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Flames from the Ashes Page 32