Read Chapter 16: The Convoy

The light came first, a pale smear on the road below, then the sound—a low growl of engines that rolled up the ridge and through the wet grass where Jack lay flat, Henri beside him. Jack pressed his good shoulder into the earth and pulled the binoculars from his pack with his left hand, wincing as the movement tugged at the bandage wrapped tight around his right shoulder. The cloth was dark with old blood, crusted now, but the wound burned like a fresh brand.

He raised the glasses.

Eight trucks. Two open-topped Kübelwagens at the front and rear, each with a machine gun mounted on a pintle. Between them, the trucks rolled heavy, their suspensions sagging low over the axles, canvas covers pulled tight against the morning mist. Jack adjusted the focus. The third truck in the line had a crane arm folded flat against its bed—a recovery vehicle, or something worse. He tracked the convoy as it followed the curve of the road east, past the burned-out farmhouse they'd used for the radio, past the hedgerow where they'd hidden from the patrol dogs, straight toward the bridge.

"Merde," Henri breathed. He lay beside Jack, chin resting on his forearms, his eyes tracing the same line. "That's not a supply run."

"No," Jack said. "That's a demolition crew."

He handed the glasses to Henri. The Frenchman took them, adjusted the focus with practiced fingers, and went still. A long moment passed. The convoy's engines shifted pitch as it began the descent toward the river valley.

"Third truck," Henri said. "The crane. They're carrying a charge."

"More than one," Jack said. "Every one of those trucks is riding low. They're not just reinforcing the garrison—they're bringing enough explosive to drop the whole span into the river."

Henri lowered the glasses. His jaw was tight, the muscle jumping beneath the stubble. "If they wire the bridge before your army arrives, it doesn't matter how many men you drop. They'll blow it the moment your tanks reach the far bank."

Jack nodded. The cold that settled in his chest wasn't from the morning damp. He'd been running on adrenaline and spite for two days, through swamps and churchyards and the dark belly of a flooded cellar, and every step had been about getting to the bridge before the Germans could make it un-savable. Now the convoy was rolling past them, and the bridge was still two miles east, and the explosives sitting in the bottom of Henri's pack were useless without detonators.

"Field glasses," Jack said. He sat up slowly, his back against a mossy stone, and worked the strap of his pack loose with his good hand. "We need a plan."

"We need more than a plan," Henri said. He looked at Jack's shoulder, the dark stain spreading through the bandage. "You need a surgeon and a day of rest. We have neither."

"Then we make do."

Jack pulled the canvas map from his pack and spread it across his knees. The terrain was a tangle of blue contour lines and green forest, the river a thick black vein running from the southwest to the coast. He traced the road with his finger, following it east until it crossed the river at the bridge—the objective, the whole goddamn point of every jump, every kill, every lost man.

"The convoy will reach the bridge in under an hour at that speed," Jack said. "Once they start wiring, we lose our window." He tapped the map. "We need detonators, and we need them before the bridge is rigged. The farmer you mentioned—the one east of the village. How far?"

Henri shook his head. "Ten kilometers by foot. Through open ground. With the patrols fanning out from the château, we'd be lucky to make it halfway before someone spots us."

"So we don't walk."

Henri looked at him. Jack let the silence stretch, let the idea settle between them.

"We take one of the trucks," Jack said. "Not the whole convoy—we can't stop them. But there's a curve about two kilometers back, where the road bends through the woods. A truck that falls behind, a driver who stops to check his engine—"

"You're talking about robbing the German army in broad daylight." Henri's voice was flat, but there was something else underneath it—not disbelief, but calculation. "With one good arm between us."

"Three good arms if Claire comes."

Henri went still. Jack had seen the look before, on men who'd been asked to trust one too many times and were trying to decide if this was the moment it finally broke.

"Claire knows the terrain better than either of us," Jack said. "She grew up in these woods. And she's sitting at the farmhouse right now, waiting for us to come back or to die. Either way, she's exposed. If the patrols swing east, they'll find her before nightfall."

Henri was quiet for a long moment. The convoy's engines had faded to a distant murmur, swallowed by the valley.

"You trust her," Henri said. It wasn't a question.

"I trust that she hates the Germans more than she fears them," Jack said. "That's enough for now."

Henri let out a breath. He folded the map and handed it back to Jack, then stood and offered his hand. Jack took it, and Henri pulled him to his feet without a word about the shoulder, without a look at the blood.

They moved through the woods at a pace that made Jack's wound throb with every step. Henri led, reading the terrain with the ease of a man who'd hunted these slopes since childhood, and Jack followed, keeping his left hand on the map and his eyes on the gaps between the trees. Twice they heard engines on the road below and dropped into the brush, waiting until the sound passed. The second time, Jack counted the vehicles—three troop carriers moving east, toward the bridge, their canvas covers bulging with men and equipment.

"He's reinforcing," Jack said when the last truck disappeared around a bend. "Stacking the garrison before the wiring goes in."

Henri's mouth was a thin line. "Émile is still there."

Jack didn't answer. There was nothing to say that would make it better. They pushed on.

The farmhouse came into view at the edge of a fallow field, its stone walls gray in the overcast light. The door opened before they reached it, and Claire stood in the frame, a shotgun cradled in her arms. She looked at Jack's shoulder, then at Henri, then past them at the empty road.

"You're still alive," she said.

"Disappointed?" Henri asked.

"Surprised." She stepped aside and let them in.

The room was small and warm, a fire crackling in the hearth. Claire moved to the table and poured two cups of wine, pushing one across the wood to Jack, who took it gratefully. Henri stood by the window, watching the road through the curtain's edge.

"The convoy," Jack said. He drank, the wine sharp and sour on his tongue. "Eight vehicles, heading for the bridge. Carrying demolition charges."

Claire's face didn't change, but her hands stilled on the pitcher. "Then it's certain," she said. "They're going to wire it."

"We're going to stop them," Jack said. "But we need detonators, and we need to move fast. There's a farmer—"

"Moreau." Claire's voice was flat, almost dismissive. "East of the village, near the old mill. He has a cache of German equipment he's been selling to anyone with the money to buy." She shook her head. "He'll sell to you, and he'll sell to the Gestapo an hour later if he thinks the price is better."

"Then we don't give him the chance to think," Jack said. "We take what we need and we leave him bound in his own cellar."

Claire studied him for a long moment. Then, without a word, she crossed to the hearth and lifted a canvas bag from the hook beside the chimney. She set it on the table and opened it—a coil of fuse, a box of blasting caps, and a hand-cranked generator that looked like it had been stripped from a field radio.

"Moreau's not the only one who kept things back from the Germans," she said. She met Jack's eyes. "I've known this land since I could walk. If you're going to rob a convoy and storm a bridge, you'll need someone who can get you there without stepping on a patrol."

Jack looked at Henri. Henri looked at Claire. The fire crackled.

"We need to move," Jack said. "The convoy's got an hour's head start, and every minute we wait, they're closer to wiring that bridge."

Claire slung the bag over her shoulder and picked up her shotgun.

"Then let's not wait," she said.