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“When do we get out of these hedges?” Manning wonders aloud.

P-38s are in the air, three of them arcing toward the barely glimpsed village. More sounds of explosions, more columns of smoke.

They come to a crossroads, where the hedges retreat a little, allowing Frangie to breathe. She’d been almost holding her breath in the claustrophobic confines. Four tanks now peel off from the main column and head down a side road, racing along at speed in the open.

A battalion runner comes back along the line, his jeep dipping into ditches to squeeze by. The driver spots Frangie and pulls up. “Captain says maybe a medic ought to go with Sergeant Washington’s detail and—”

The next part is obliterated by the shriek of falling artillery.

“Fug!” the runner yells, and leaps from his car. Frangie, Manning, and Deacon are right behind him, as are the men who’ve been riding on the outside of the tanks. She lands in a wet ditch and hugs weeds as shells explode all around the intersection.

The tanks break for cover, some veering down one road, some down the other, some powering straight ahead.

Shells rain down for five minutes—a very long five minutes.

The cries of Medic! rise on the ensuing silence. Frangie grabs her bags and runs.

15

RAINY SCHULTERMAN—NEAR LIMOGES, NAZI-OCCUPIED FRANCE

They follow the train tracks, Philippe in the lead, Marie close behind him, Rainy bringing up the rear.

Rainy goes over the facts again in her head. Étienne, Wickham, and Marie had been together, tasked with creating a diversion. Wickham and Étienne are apparently dead, Marie alive and only slightly hurt. Rainy had heard two bursts of Sten gunfire. There had been no sound of German weapons.

Étienne, Wickham, and Marie. But only two, Wickham and Marie, had Sten guns; Étienne had a pistol and grenades. So the shooting was either from Wickham or Marie. It is extremely unlikely—unlikely to the point of absurdity—that the British flyer would have been the traitor.

A burst of Sten gunfire, a pause, a second burst.

The first would have killed Wickham. Then a pause as Marie pleaded with Étienne to join her. And, when he refused or perhaps even drew his pistol, the second burst.

There was no escaping the obvious conclusion: Marie had killed both men.

Marie was a traitor.

Now what do I do?

The sensible, if ruthless, thing would be to draw her Walther and shoot Marie in the back of the head. Philippe was obviously sweet on her, maybe even in love, and she couldn’t count on him to do the job. Or even be certain that he would understand.

It would be an act of charity for her to do it.

Right now.

But the rational part of Rainy is having trouble with every other part of her. She is jazzed, keyed-up, jumpy, and nervous. The gun battle, the massive explosions that still rock the night, it all leaves her feeling unreal, feeling a little bit crazy. She thinks she’s right, but she isn’t sure her brain is working right.

And she isn’t sure that she is an assassin.

How the hell has it come to this? She is meant to be sneaking around and reporting on movements of the Das Reich, and instead she’s very likely to be picked up by the Gestapo or the SD, even as she debates executing one of their collaborators.

Her hand reaches beneath her coat, touches the butt of her pistol, and suddenly Philippe calls a halt. There’s a railway signalman’s shed where the track splits. Philippe pushes in, fumbles and finds a lantern, and strikes a light.

“Let’s have a rest, eh?” Philippe says. In the harsh light his face looks grim. “What do you think, Marie? Shall we rest?”

Rainy does not think it is time to rest. Not at all. In fact, it’s insane. They are still on the railroad tracks. The Germans will follow the tracks as soon as they can get a handful of men together. They have maybe twenty minutes.

But Marie agrees with Philippe. “Yes, let’s rest here.”

Marie takes the only chair, lays her Sten gun aside, puts her hands over her face, and cries quietly.