Page 49 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“See that you don't.” He opened the door, paused. “Hale. For what it's worth, I wouldn't have chosen you for this if I didn't believe you could do it. You're the best marksman we have. Maybe the best I've ever seen. Whatever else is going on in your head, that skill is still there. Trust it.”

He left without waiting for a response, and I stood in my cold room listening to his footsteps fade down the corridor.

The mission briefing would arrive in a few hours. A target who'd sent hundreds of men to watery graves. A shot that could change the course of the Mediterranean campaign. A chance to be useful again, to be more than a broken soldier shuffling through guard duty.

And underneath it all, the knowledge that Art had made this possible. Had cracked the code that led us here. Had given me the intelligence I needed to do the one thing I was good at.

I picked up the photograph of my family, looked at their faces. Mum with her worried eyes. Dad with his stiff pride. Rose grinning. Alfie squinting against the sun.

I'd come back to them. I'd come back to Art.

The afternoon shiftfound me walking the perimeter with Whitmore. We moved through the treeline in comfortable silence, checking fence integrity, scanning for anything out of place.

“Sergeant.” Whitmore's voice was low, alert. “Movement. Two o'clock.”

I followed his gaze. Through the bare branches, maybe fifty yards out, a figure moved along the fence line. Wrong posture. Wrong pace. Not one of ours.

“Stay here,” I murmured. “Cover the retreat path. If this goes sideways, get back to the main gate and raise the alarm.”

“Shouldn't I come with you?”

“No. If there's more than one, I need eyes on my back.” I drew my sidearm, checking the chamber by feel. “Don't shoot unless you have to. And don't shoot me.”

“Wouldn't dream of it, Sarge.”

I moved forward, using the trees for cover, every sense sharpened to crystal clarity. The figure was still there, crouched near a section of fence where the wire had sagged. Doing something with his hands. Cutting, maybe. Or planting something.

Twenty yards. Close enough to see details. Male, dark coat, civilian clothes. Tool in his hand, working at the fence.

Not a lost kitchen worker this time. This was deliberate.

“Stop!” My voice cut through the cold air. “Hands where I can see them!”

The man's head snapped toward me. For a fraction of a second, our eyes met.

Then he ran.

I was after him before conscious thought could interfere, legs pumping through snow that dragged at my boots, closing the distance with every stride. He was fast, but I was faster, driven by training and instinct and the absolute certainty that I couldn't let him escape.

He reached into his coat.

I tackled him before he could draw whatever he was reaching for. We hit the ground hard, snow exploding around us, and then it was close combat, the kind of brutal efficiency they'd drilled into me until it became second nature.

He fought back. Harder than expected, trained, not some amateur caught in the wrong place. An elbow caught my ribs, driving the air from my lungs. I took the hit, used the momentum to roll, came up with my knee on his chest and my forearm across his throat.

“Don't move.” I pressed harder, cutting off his air. “Don't bloody move.”

He thrashed, tried to throw me off. My ribs screamed where he'd hit me, but I held position, increasing pressure until his struggles weakened.

“Who sent you?” I demanded. “Who do you work for?”

No answer. Just hatred in his eyes, the kind that came from ideology rather than circumstance.

His hand moved toward his pocket again. I saw the glint of metal, reacted without thinking, slamming his arm against the frozen ground until his fingers opened and a knife skittered across the snow.

“Whitmore!” I shouted. “Get over here! Now!”

Footsteps crunching through snow. Whitmore appeared, rifle raised, face pale but steady.