by Glenn Cooper
“Are we ready?” Garibaldi asked John.
“Give us a few more minutes to tie the cannon down better.”
Soon Charlie ran over, ducking his head below the crenellations.
“We’ve sorted it,” he said.
John shook his hand. “I want to tell you something.”
Charlie looked like he was going to get a scolding but he was surprised.
“I know you’ve been beating yourself up,” John said. “I know you’ve been saying that maybe you could have done this and maybe you could have done that to save your family. That’s all horseshit. You’re here because you were the strongest, fastest, and bravest of the bunch. You’re a good man, Charlie, and I’m proud to have you by my side in a fight.”
“You mean that?” Charlie said, choking on his words.
“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it. Good luck today and keep your head down.”
Garibaldi approached Aragon. “We are ready,” he said. “I would be most grateful if you could give the order to your men to fire. I will do the same in Italian and we shall have a battle.”
Aragon smiled and said, “I have been anxious to see how your new weapons perform.”
“So am I,” Garibaldi said. “Much depends on it.”
Aragon raised his arm and shouted, “Open fire!” Garibaldi did the same.
From the plain below, just behind his line of cannon, Jugurtha saw the dark ramparts erupt in hundreds of points of orange fire. One of the flashes was huge and his horse reared in fear when a shell from the singing cannon shrieked overhead and landed to his rear. The round tore through a dense concentration of Moorish infantrymen and archers leaving a bloody gash in the earth.
At the same time Hale rockets whistled into the ranks of the artillerymen, felling dozens. Minié balls fired by Iberian and Italian sharpshooters pocked the lines.
Jugurtha shouted for his commander, Tariq, to order the cannon pulled back but Tariq was already down on the ground clutching at a melon-sized hole in his chest from a direct rocket hit.
The rocket and bullet fire kept coming and hundreds of frontline troops fell victim. On the ramparts, reloaders and shooters were finding their rhythm and kept the hail of steel and lead coming. Simon and Brian, wadding stuffed in their ears, worked the singing cannon and soon another shell ripped apart the main body of Moors.
Despite Jugurtha’s shouts and threats, the Moors broke ranks and began fleeing, leaving their cannon behind. The infantry, archers and cavalrymen in the rear also panicked in anticipation of a third singing shell exploding in their midst. Then a Minié ball slammed into Jugurtha’s raging, open mouth, shattering teeth and tumbling through the base of his skull. Only a stirrup prevented him from falling all the way to the grass. His horse bolted and raced through the lines ahead of the retreating Moors, his head bouncing on the hard ground.
Through the smoke, Garibaldi saw the disarray. He put down his spyglass and told Aragon the ground attack should commence.
Aragon dropped a red cloth onto the city-side of the wall and they began streaming out the south gates, riding and running toward the fleeing Moors, whooping triumphantly.
With that Aragon announced he was going to the palace to inform the king the battle had turned. “He will wish to attend the dénouement.”
“I will await his arrival with bated breath,” Garibaldi said with a smile.
In the palace everyone milled around Martin’s casualty ward awaiting the first victims. Martin and Tony sat in one corner talking quietly. Alice and Tracy sat on a cot, jumping at each volley of fire, and Arabel and Emily paced the floor in lockstep.
When the doors opened they expected to see stretcher-bearers but instead an armed guard of Iberians barged in. They marched directly to the sisters and grabbed them by their wrists, pulling them toward the door.
“Leave us alone!” Emily shouted. “What are you doing?”
Emily bit down on a soldier’s hand and when he loosened his grip she pulled free and began putting her Krav Maga training into gear. With a kick to the groin and the heel of her hand to his nose, the man stumbled backwards.
“Get away from them!” Tony shouted but when he came forward, a soldier drew his sword, prompting Martin to pull him back.
Tracy and Alice screamed and Emily was about to attack the man holding Arabel when a powerful arm clamped her neck in a chokehold. In seconds she went limp. The soldiers dragged the women away, leaving the others in shock. The door latch was dropped into its slot from the outside and the four of them were trapped.
There was no inside latch. Tony grabbed one of Martin’s surgical knives and began trying to slide it between the door and the frame.
“Please hurry,” Alice cried. “We’ve got to help them.”
On the ramparts the firing had been halted to avoid friendly-fire casualties during the ground assault. Some elite elements of Jugurtha’s brigades stayed to fight but most were already in full flight to the south. As word of the rout spread, Moorish troops encircling the city abandoned their positions and fled too.
John congratulated Caravaggio and Simon and hugged Brian and Trevor.
“Superior technology will win every bloody time,” Brian said.
“Amen to that,” Trevor said.
“Let’s head back to the palace and get the others,” John said. “I’ll talk to Giuseppe to see when he’s going to be ready to head out to Marksburg.”
Then they heard Tony shouting and saw him running along the ramparts toward them.
He reached them panting and breathless. “You’ve got to come!” he gasped. “They’ve been taken!”
“Who?” John said in a panic.
“Emily and Arabel.”
“I don’t know where but they’re gone. Martin’s with Alice and Tracy.”
Simon ran over. “What did you say about Alice?”
“She’s okay, it’s Emily and Arabel,” Tony said.
Trevor was already running for the stairs and John lit off after him, followed by Simon.
Brian shouted that he was coming too but John wheeled around and told him to stay put in case the battle flared.
There were a couple of rifles propped against the wall next to a barrel of Minié balls. John stopped to grab a couple of powder horns, stuffed his pockets with ammunition then picked up the rifles.
John tossed Trevor a rifle and they sprinted through the congested streets of Burgos and into the main palace entrance that was wide open and unattended. Simon and Tony went straight to the room where Alice was holed up and John and Trevor ran through the halls looking for answers.
Near the banqueting hall they saw Queen Mécia sweeping past with Guomez and her attendants.
She raised a hand to stop the procession and hurried over and spoke to them.
Guomez translated, “Her Majesty wants to know how is Senhor Brian.”
“He’s fine,” John said. “Does she know what happened to our women, Emily and Arabel?”
“Oh yes, she most certainly does,” Guomez answered.
The queen began furiously answering the translated question.
“She says that Pedro, may he putrefy in a commoner’s rotting room, seized the women and departed the city with his royal guards. It seems he has reneged on the assurances he gave in conjunction with King Giuseppe’s alliance.”
“Where’d they go?” Trevor shouted.
“She believes it is León. He has a fortified palace there where he enjoys whoring and hunting.”
“Which direction?” John asked.
“West.”
As they sped off, Guomez called after them, “She says she hopes you destroy the filthy bastard.”
In the main bailey they saw some saddled horses at the ready.
“How’s your riding?” John asked.
“It’ll have to do, won’t it?”
Before mounting they quickly loaded both rifles, shouldered them on their straps, then rode from the palace heading for the west gate.
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Outside the city they kicked their horses to a gallop and John led the way through the abandoned Moorish line. The grass was trampled and tracks were indecipherable until they had ridden a mile or so. At that point the Moors had turned south and the grass was less disturbed, revealing the clear impressions of wagon wheels and horse’s hooves.
Ahead, sandwiched between the green grass and the light gray sky was a brown speck.
“I think that’s them,” John shouted. “Try to keep up.”
He kicked his horse and it responded. Trevor squeezed the reins so hard his hands shook and dug his heels into the horse’s flanks. The two men raced ahead.
The royal carriage was not roomy. Emily was crammed beside Arabel on a bench, their knees pressing up against King Pedro and the Duke of Aragon. Aragon had a fancy pistol in his hand. Both women stared icily at their captors.
“Don’t worry,” Emily told Arabel. “They’ll come.”
“I’m not worried,” Arabel said. “I’m angry. I’m very, very angry.”
In twenty minutes John and Trevor were half a mile behind.
“I’m going to shoot from the saddle, you’re going to have to pass and re-load. Can you do that?”
“Ride with no hands?” Trevor shouted back. “What’s the worse that could happen?”
They kept getting closer.
John saw there were eight outriders, four horsemen on each side of the carriage. When he thought he was in range he tucked the reins under his crotch, unshouldered the rifle and took aim.
Emily heard the shot and from the carriage window saw a man fall.
Aragon shouted to the carriageman to go faster.
“John’s a very good shot,” Emily said.
“I hope Trevor’s not on a horse,” Arabel said. “He told me he hates riding.”
Emily glowered at the king and said, “You look scared, you bastard.”
“What is she saying?” Pedro asked Aragon.
“I do not know, Your Majesty” the duke replied. “I am sure it is of no consequence.”
Riding side-by-side, John tossed his spent rifle to Trevor and once Trevor had secured it, he passed the loaded one back. While John took aim Trevor began the close-to-impossible task of staying in the saddle while muzzle-loading powder and bullet. He almost fell but through sheer will he poured the powder from a horn as John dropped another rider.
“Did it!” Trevor shouted.
“Good man!” John replied as they exchanged rifles again.
When a third man fell, the other riders apparently decided they did not like their backs turned to this sharpshooter. Despite a lack of royal orders, five remaining soldiers pulled up, turned their horses, and with swords drawn they charged.
There wasn’t time to reload. John flipped the rifle around and gripped the warm barrel like a baseball bat and Trevor did the same but in doing this he finally lost his balance and slid out of the saddle, hitting the ground hard.
When he picked himself up, in pain but with no broken bones, John was way ahead, swinging his butt stock into an Iberian’s face.
Trevor ignored the sharp pain in his hip and took off running, closing the gap until he was close to the action. John was flailing his rifle keeping the slashing swords at bay but Trevor saw one of the soldiers pull a pistol from his belt and cock the trigger.
He wasn’t going to get there in time so he threw his rifle as hard as he could. It spun through the air and missed the gunman.
But it struck his horse.
The animal bucked hard and the soldier came off. Trevor was on him, punching away, crushing his face more and more with each blow.
When the man went limp Trevor found his pistol underneath him and pivoted just as a swordsman was about to strike him. The lead ball tore into his throat.
Emily leaned out the carriage window and saw John and Trevor receding in the distance.
Aragon shouted at her to sit back down and pointed his pistol for emphasis then angrily cocked it. She shouted back that she didn’t speak Spanish and when he continued on she sat down hard then with all her might thrust her right foot into Aragon’s nose.
The gun fell and she began grappling for it. The king began to fumble for a dagger but Arabel copied her sister and started to pummel him with her feet.
Aragon, bleeding from his nose, suddenly stopped fighting and told the king they had to surrender. Emily was pointing the pistol at them.
“Tell the driver to stop,” Emily commanded.
The king and duke looked at each other not comprehending.
She tried French. “Arrêt, arrêt!”
Aragon called out to the driver to halt and the carriage slowed and stopped.
Emily opened the door and motioned with the pistol. Aragon climbed down first, followed by Pedro.
“I hope John and Trevor are all right,” Arabel said and she began to exit the carriage, blocking Emily’s line of sight.
“Wait!” Emily said. “He’s still got a knife,” but it was too late.
Pedro pulled her down and when Emily regained her line of sight, Arabel had a dagger at her throat.
“Easy, easy,” Emily said to Arabel, to the king, to herself. She carefully stepped down, keeping the pistol trained on the king.
“God, don’t shoot,” Arabel said.
“I won’t but let’s not tell them that.”
Aragon began shouting and pointing.
They heard John’s voice behind her. “It’s okay. We’re here.”
“Arabel, don’t move a muscle,” Trevor said.
“Can I breathe?”
“Yeah, you can do that.”
Pedro shouted at them to stay back. To strike home his meaning he pricked the skin of her throat with the tip of the knife.
“Okay, okay, we’re not coming closer,” Trevor said.
“Emily, I want you to take three steps back and hand me the pistol,” John said.
“You don’t have a gun?” she asked. She sounded very afraid.
“Not a loaded one. Is yours loaded?”
“It’s the duke’s. He’s been acting like it’s loaded.”
Trevor spoke up. “I want the shot. Give it to me, Emily.”
“You want it?” John asked.
“Yeah, I want it.”
“All right, Emily, give it to Trev.”
Trevor quickly took the pistol from her. Aragon and Pedro began shouting. The king pulled Arabel’s hair back to fully expose her neck to the dagger.
Trevor gripped the pistol with both hands and assumed a firing stance. He was eight feet away and Arabel blocked all but a few square inches of Pedro’s head. “Arabel,” he said. “I don’t even want you to breathe now, all right?”
She took a deep breath and held it.
Trevor pulled the trigger.
Arabel dropped to the grass and Emily screamed.
Pedro’s right eye was gone.
He fell beside her and began convulsing.
Emily went to her. “Are you okay?” she shouted.
Arabel opened her eyes and replied with a glassy stare. “I’m fine. What happened?”
“The good guy took out the bad guy,” John said, rubbing Trevor’s shoulders.
Aragon seized the opportunity to flee and was twenty feet away when John picked up the dagger, tested its weight, and threw it hard. It rotated several times and stuck deep in the duke’s back.
The carriageman was still in his seat, rigid as a board. John pulled him down, frisked him, and let him run away.
“Climb in, ladies, and gentleman,” John said. “This ride’s on me.”
When they arrived back into the palace they found their friends in the main bailey overjoyed to see them. They were crowded around Simon who had been busily charging the boiler of one of the steam cars to go after them. He let out the steam and the long sigh the boiler made seemed to speak for all of them. Alice came over to him and Simon draped his thick arm around her shoulder.
“So very good to see you safe,
” Garibaldi said.
“Is the fight over?” John asked.
“The Moors are no longer a threat,” he replied. “And Pedro?”
“Trevor shot him. He’s history. Aragon’s not doing too well either.”
Guomez called out the news to Queen Mécia who was coming into the courtyard.
Her exuberant smile said it all.
“The queen is pleased,” Guomez said. “Greatly pleased.”
“Our pact was with Iberia,” Garibaldi told Guomez, “not with Pedro. I wish to know whether the queen intends to honor this pact?”
“I will honor our alliance with one condition,” she replied.
Garibaldi looked at Caravaggio and Simon and frowned. “Ask her what is her condition.”
“It is this,” she said. “I do not wish to rule Iberia. I have neither the head nor the stomach for it. You, King Giuseppe, you seem to be a good man and an able monarch. You will be the new king of Iberia. I wish only to return to Bilbao and enjoy the status of queen mother.”
As Guomez translated, Garibaldi’s face lit up. “Tell her I accept her most generous condition. We will need to depart at first light tomorrow with a large contingent of your—I mean our army. We must make haste to Germania to rescue this woman’s poor children.”
Arabel wept at the news.
“I have one more condition,” the queen said, pointing straight at Brian. “Before you leave, I will dine tonight with Senhor Brian.”
29
Stalin had been expecting his visitors.
A day earlier he had been informed that a steam car of French manufacture had arrived at Marksburg under a flag of truce. Nevertheless, German and Russian soldiers patrolling the winding access road to the hillside castle on the Rhine had disarmed the driver and passenger before allowing them any farther.
It was rat-faced Colonel Yagoda who had interviewed the one who claimed to be the spokesman.
“What is your name?” Yagoda had asked in English, their common language.
