Read Chapter 13: The Priest

The church at Saint-Jean-des-Marais was a squat stone beast sinking into the mud, its bell tower crooked as a broken tooth. Henri pushed through the heavy oak door without knocking. Inside, the smell of damp candles and old incense swallowed them. A single oil lamp burned near the altar.

The priest was already there, as if he'd been waiting. He was a small man with wire spectacles and a face like a ploughed field. His cassock was patched at the elbows. He looked at Henri, then at Jack's uniform, and his eyes went narrow and flat.

"Henri," the priest said. A statement, not a greeting.

"Father Michel. We need shelter." Henri's voice was raw. He hadn't slept in two days. "And we need stores. Explosives. Detonators."

Father Michel removed his spectacles and polished them with a grey rag. "You come in the night, with an American soldier, and you ask for explosives." He placed the glasses back on his nose. "The Germans have been here. Twice this week. They ask about the Resistance. They say the swamp is crawling with terrorists."

"We are not terrorists," Henri said.

"You killed a man at the château last night." The priest said it calmly. Too calmly. "The whole valley knows it. The Baron is in chains because of you."

Henri flinched. Jack stepped forward, hand hovering near his holster. "The Baron helped us. He gave us the code to the cellar. We didn't ask for his arrest."

"No one is asking for anything," the priest said, "but you stand in my church, bleeding your war into my flock. The Gestapo has put a reward on you. Both of you."

"We need a rifle, a few detonators, and a place to sleep until dawn." Jack kept his voice low. "We're not staying. We're going to the bridge at Mézières."

Father Michel went very still. The air in the church shifted, grew heavier. "The bridge," he repeated.

"You know it," Jack said.

"I know that it is wired to blow. I know that the Americans and the British are coming." The priest walked to the altar and picked up a small wooden crucifix. He turned it over in his hands. "I know that Émile is there now, digging wire trenches for men who would hang him in the square for sport."

Henri's knuckles went white. "I will get him out."

"Will you?" The priest looked at Henri with something close to pity. "You couldn't get your sister out, when she was dying. You couldn't get the Baron out of his own cellar. Now you will get the boy out from beneath a bridge full of German engineers?" He shook his head. "God forgives us our delusions, but the Gestapo does not."

The words cut deep. Jack saw Henri's face twist, a flash of the anger that had been living under his skin since the château. "We have the charges," Henri said tightly. "We have what we took from the cellar. We only need fuses, and detonators, and a clear night."

Father Michel sighed. He set down the crucifix and smoothed his cassock. "I have a cache in the sacristy floor. And I have a contact in the village who keeps detonators hidden in his wine press." He gestured toward the side door. "Wait in the back room. I will fetch what you need. It will take an hour. You can rest."

Jack hesitated. The priest's cooperation felt too easy. But they had nowhere else to go. The swamp dogs were still out there, and the bruises from the cellar were turning black on his ribs.

"Thank you," Jack said. He followed Henri through the sacristy door into a small, cold room lined with old vestments and brass candlesticks. A single cot sat in the corner, threadbare but dry.

Henri collapsed onto the cot, boots still on. He stared at the ceiling. "He was my brother's friend. Before the war."

"Trusting him is a risk," Jack said.

"Not trusting him is a death sentence," Henri replied.

Jack sat against the wall, cradling his rucksack full of explosives. He closed his eyes. Just a minute of rest. Just enough to take the edge off the exhaustion coiling in his skull.

He didn't know how long he slept. What woke him was the creak of the sacristy door, too careful, too slow. His eyes snapped open. Henri was already upright, gripping the claw hammer he'd taken from the château.

Father Michel's voice came through the boards, low and quick. "They are in the back room. Two of them. The American and the hunter."

A second voice, clipped and flat. Berlin-flat. "Good. Take the back path. Cut them off before they reach the trees."

Jack didn't wait to hear more. He grabbed the rucksack and slammed his shoulder into the door. It splintered on the second hit. He came out with his pistol up.

Father Michel stood by the altar, hand still on the doorknob of the main entrance. His face was pale, but his eyes were hard. Behind him, through the window, a black car was rolling to a stop in the churchyard.

The priest raised a hand. "I'm sorry, son."

Jack fired. The shot took the priest in the chest, slamming him backward against the altar. He slid down slowly, his cassock blooming dark.

Henri was already moving, shattering the side window with a candlestick. "Go. Go!"

They dove through the glass as the first submachine gun burst tore through the church, chewing holes in the pews. Jack hit the ground rolling, came up, and ran—straight into the tree line as the gunfire chased them.

A bullet clipped his shoulder. The shock was instantaneous, a hot knife that spun him half around. He stumbled into Henri, nearly dragged him down.

"Aline—" Jack grunted, pressing his palm to the wound. Blood leaked between his fingers. "Keep moving. Don't stop."

Behind them, boots hit gravel. A shout in German. The black car's engine gunned.

Jack ran, shoulder screaming, heart pounding. He ran into the dark, hunted now, with nowhere left to hide.