Page 56 of The Words Beneath the Noise

The walk to the observation point took an hour, moving through hedgerows and drainage ditches, staying off roads and away from farmhouses where German patrols might haveeyes. Jean-Claude led the way, moving with the sure-footed confidence of a man who'd grown up on this land and knew every fold and hollow.

The ridge was perfect.

Natural rock formation providing cover, clear sightline to the crossroads below, multiple escape routes through the forest behind us. I settled into position, unfolding the bipod on my rifle, adjusting the scope until the road swam into crystal focus.

“We wait here,” Pierre said, crouching beside me. “When the shot is taken, we move north. Fast. No stopping.”

“Understood.”

He and Jean-Claude faded back into the treeline, close enough to guide me when the time came, far enough to avoid being caught in any return fire.

I was alone with my rifle and the empty road and the slow crawl of time.

The waiting was always the hardest part.

In combat, you didn't have time to think. Everything happened too fast, reactions outpacing conscious thought, training and instinct merging into a single continuous flow of action. But this, lying still while minutes stretched into hours, this gave your mind too much room to wander.

I thought about Danny. About the moment in the crater when I'd hesitated, just a fraction of a second, and he'd paid for my hesitation with his life.

I thought about all the faces I'd seen through scopes. German officers. Machine gunners. Other snipers who'd been hunting me while I hunted them. Each one a life ended by my finger on this trigger.

I thought about Art, sitting at his desk in Hut X, translating death into data. Wondered if he was thinking about me. Wondered if he'd slept any better than I had.

Wondered if I'd ever see him again.

The road remained empty. Birds called in the trees behind me. The sun climbed higher, burning off the morning mist, turning the frost to dew that soaked through my uniform where I pressed against the ground.

Twelve hundred hours, by my watch. Two hours to target.

I ran through the checklist again. Rifle secure. Ammunition ready. Scope clear. Wind minimal, coming from the northwest, maybe five knots. Negligible at this range.

Thirteen hundred hours.

My bladder ached, but I didn't move. Couldn't risk changing position now, couldn't risk being seen if advance scouts came through before the convoy.

Thirteen thirty.

Sweat trickled down my spine despite the cold. Familiar sensation. The body's response to anticipated violence, flooding the system with adrenaline in preparation for fight or flight.

I breathed. Slow and steady. Let the tension flow out with each exhale.

Thirteen forty-five.

Engine noise, distant but growing. Coming from the east, just as the intelligence predicted.

My finger moved to the trigger guard. Not touching the trigger itself, not yet, but close enough that the motion would be instantaneous when the moment came.

The first vehicle appeared around the bend.

Military car, open-topped, two soldiers in the front and two in the back with rifles. Security detail. They scanned the road ahead, the treeline, the ridge where I lay hidden. Their eyes passed over my position without stopping.

Good cover. Good concealment. Art's coordinates putting me exactly where I needed to be.

Second vehicle.

Staff car, enclosed, Nazi pennant fluttering from the aerial. Through my scope, I could see the driver's face, young and bored, and beside him a shape that might have been the target.

I tracked the car as it moved along the road, keeping the crosshairs centred on the rear passenger window. Waiting for the angle that would give me a clean shot.