Read Chapter 26: The Betrayal

The marsh water was cold enough to steal the breath from Jack’s lungs. He lay flat on his belly behind a stand of reeds, Henri beside him, both of them watching the bridge’s southern approach through a gap in the cattails. The Germans had doubled the sentries. Two more machine-gun nests had been erected on the near bank, and a pair of Kübelwagens swept the road with their headlights every three minutes.

“Claire’s been gone too long,” Henri said, his voice a low rasp. He pressed a hand to the blood-soaked rag tied around his ribs. The wound had gone deep, and Jack could see the pale shimmer of sweat on his face even in the dark.

“She said she’d scout the east treeline for a cleaner path to the junction box,” Jack said. “Three minutes, tops.”

“That was twenty.”

Jack checked his watch. Twenty-two minutes, actually. The knot in his stomach tightened. Claire had been steady so far—cool under fire, quick to read a situation. But steady people didn’t vanish into a German-held marsh with the entire bridge on alert and the demolition clock ticking.

“I’m going after her,” Jack said.

Henri grabbed his arm. The grip was weak but insistent. “You’re in no shape to crawl through that muck with a shoulder that won’t lift past your chest. And I can’t run. If she’s in trouble, we both go, or neither of us does.”

A sound cut through the marsh—soft, rhythmic. Splashing. Jack’s hand went to the knife at his belt. Henri’s rifle came up, the barrel trembling with the effort.

A figure emerged from the reeds. Small. Moving fast. Claire.

She dropped into the mud beside them, breathing hard. Her face was streaked with black marsh slime, but something else was in her eyes. Something Jack hadn’t seen before. A tightness. A calculation.

“The east treeline is clear,” she said. “There’s a drainage ditch that runs under the road and comes up right against the bridge’s foundation. We can use it to get to the junction box without crossing the open ground.”

Henri exhaled. “Good. The key should buy us the time we need to cut the wires.”

“The key,” Claire repeated. Her gaze flicked to Henri’s wound. “You can’t hold the ladder with that arm, Henri. Jack’s shoulder is no good either.”

“We’ll manage,” Jack said.

Claire shook her head. “No. You’ll be dead in the water before you reach the third rung. I’ll go up. I’m the only one who can do this cleanly.”

Jack studied her. She was right—she was the only one who hadn’t taken a bullet. But something niggled at him. The way she’d said *the key*—not *Master Weiss’s key* or *the Baron’s key*. Like she’d been thinking about it long before now.

“Fine,” Jack said. “You take the ladder. Henri and I will cover the sentry from the drainage ditch. We move in ten minutes.”

Claire nodded. She turned to look at the bridge, her silhouette sharp against the glow of the German floodlights. Jack saw her hand drift to the pocket of her coat. Not her weapon pocket. The one she kept her map in.

“Claire,” Henri said. “What is it?”

She turned back. Her face was unreadable.

“It’s nothing. Just nerves.” She forced a smile. “We’ve come too far to lose it all now.”

Jack watched her walk a few paces away, ostensibly to check the angle of the ditch entrance. He didn’t believe her. He’d been a Ranger long enough to know when a man was about to run.

“Henri,” he whispered. “We need to—”

Shots rang out. Not from the bridge—from the east. A German patrol, rifles raised, bullets tearing through the reeds where Claire had been standing two seconds earlier.

She was gone.

Jack hit the mud, dragging Henri down with him. The patrol was fanning out, boots splashing, shouts in German cutting through the night. *There! Two of them!*

“She led them straight to us,” Jack snarled.

Henri’s face went pale. “No. She wouldn’t. She saved my life.”

“She was waiting for the right moment.” Jack grabbed Henri’s collar, hauling him toward the deeper water. “She’s been playing us the whole time. She knew about the key. She knew about the junction. She told them exactly where we’d be.”

A flare burst overhead, turning the marsh to white daylight. Jack saw them—a dozen German soldiers, rifles trained, closing in on a pincer from both sides. And behind them, moving through the treeline at a dead sprint, a small figure in a dark coat.

Claire. Running toward the château. Toward Kessler.

Henri growled, lifting his rifle. “She won’t make it.”

Jack pushed the barrel down. “You’ll give away our position.”

“She already did that for us.”

Another burst of gunfire chewed the mud at their feet. Jack pulled Henri into the water, the cold flooding his boots, his wounded shoulder screaming as he dragged them under the cover of the reeds. Above them, the Germans were shouting, forming a line. The entire eastern flank of the operation was compromised.

And in the distance, Jack saw the bridge lights flicker. Not a malfunction. A signal.

Someone was about to press the detonator.

He looked at Henri, bleeding, fading, his face twisted with fury and betrayal. Jack had no words to soften it.

Claire was gone. The mission was blown. And now they were trapped in a swamp with every German in Normandy closing in.