Jimmy.
There on the ground. Spread eagle, staring up at the rain that was washing the blood off his face.
Rossett knelt next to him, looked around, and moved off again.
There was no point checking the pulse of a dead man.
That old copper had been tougher than he looked.
He’d not gone down until the third strike from the brick the Bear had picked up as they crawled through the fence. The copper had still been trying to defend himself after the sixth time it hit him.
Impressive stuff.
The seventh had finally knocked him out, but the ninth was the one that killed him.
He was a tough old, dead old, memorable old, bastard.
The Bear had to give him that.
No time for congratulations, though. Not with Rossett breathing down his neck.
This was what the Bear had been waiting for. This was the moment he had been dreaming of since he had seen Rossett walking through the doorway of his cell.
The Bear finally had a worthy opponent.
He lay under one of the old abandoned train cars struggling to get the key he had taken from Jimmy into the handcuff lock. The Bear had it in his mouth and was holding the cuffs up to it. He cursed as the key dropped onto his chest for the third time, picked it up again, and then froze.
Footsteps.
To his left. Careful, slow, searching steps.
Rossett?
The Bear gripped the key between his teeth again, then took hold of the revolver he had taken from Jimmy. The hammer was already back and raring to go as he rolled silently onto his left side. He looked toward the footsteps.
It was painfully dark.
There was nothing now, just silence.
The Bear moved so that he could see out from under the other side of the train car. One of the stones between the crossties made a noise as he rolled. He froze. Waited. Listened. And then slowly, ever so slowly, completed the maneuver to look out toward the gates.
The floodlight was still burning bright about fifty yards away. The Bear scanned the open spaces, then the shadows. The sound of the voices on the other side of the wall was louder now. The Germans were nearly inside.
He needed to get moving.
He rolled back, took a slow breath through his nose, and calmed himself.
This was what he wanted.
All his life, every step, every moment, every decision large or small, they all led to this.
He breathed, focused, adjusted the key with his tongue against his teeth, and tried once again with the cuffs. This time he forgot about Rossett, about the Germans outside, about the games, the challenges, the fights, and the blood that had been pounding in his ears since he had beaten Jimmy to death.
He closed his eyes.
He just thought about the key and the lock.
Cuffs pulled as far apart as he could get them. Searching for the keyhole with the tip of the key. Slowly slipping it in, twisting it, then holding it tight with his teeth and tongue.
Slow.
Slow.
The key turned. The Bear breathed. Ten seconds later the cuffs were on the ground and he was out from under the train and running.
Rossett heard the Bear go.
He spun and dropped to one knee, Webley out in front of him, .303 on the ground at his feet. The drizzle was turning to rain, and it tasted of coal dust. He slowly traced the bead of the Webley’s sight through the shadows and sparkling rain.
Nothing.
To his right, through a gap between freight cars, he could see one of the Germans peering through the iron gates, dodging back, then peeking in again.
It wouldn’t be long until they entered.
He needed to get moving.
He needed to find the Bear.
Corporal Willy Kohl was an eleven-year veteran, and he had a theory that the soldiers who got the medals were often the soldiers who got shot.
Willy didn’t want any medals, and Willy didn’t want to get shot.
That night, when Becker had been dispatching squads to go out and search for Rossett and Captain Bauer, Willy had taken his men in the direction he thought was least likely to lead them into trouble.
His men hadn’t complained. They wanted to go home just as much as he did, so they had followed him without question.
The problem was, it had been the wrong direction.
His driver was lying next to his truck leaking blood onto the street. The truck was also leaking, and neither of them was going to be moving anyplace soon.
Both shot by whichever bastard had been heading into the goods yard Willy had been stupid enough to stumble upon.
He and his men had sprawled on the ground as the first of the shots had come in, and by the time the second one had hit home, most of them were hiding behind the truck wishing they were on the boat home.
It had taken Willy nearly two minutes to get himself moving again, and if you added the minute it had taken him to encourage his men out of hiding, a lot of time had passed.
Enough time for whoever had shot at them to get clear of the scene. Enough time to make it safe to search the area.
Willy dodged his head around the gatepost and peered into the yard.
The darkness beyond the solitary floodlight gave him no clues as to what to do next. He leaned back and looked at his men, who were pressed tight against the wall behind him. Eight of them, armed to the chattering teeth, and not one of them over the age of twenty-three.
He looked through the gates again, then gestured with a flick of the hand that the man nearest to him should come closer.
“Corp?” The kid was trying to sound like he wasn’t scared, and failing badly. His helmet looked like a soup pan balanced on his head, and he had to keep pushing it back to keep it above his eyes.
“Did Becker say how long he would be?” Willy nodded his head to the radio operator crouching behind them.
“Ten minutes.”
Willy looked back into the yard, then at the chain on the gate. He had to go in. If Becker turned up and they were still hiding outside the yard, he’d skin him alive.
“We are going in,” Willy said to the private, who nodded unconvincingly. “Blow the lock.”
Even in the shadows Willy saw the kid swallow.
There was a pause before the kid eased past him, pushed back his helmet again, and then approached the lock at a crouch. Willy gestured that the rest of the squad should move back. He watched as the private unscrewed the caps on a couple of grenades and carefully hooked them into the chain holding the gates shut.
The kid looked at Willy and nodded. Then he pulled the string and ran like hell.
Iris and the resistance froze in the mouth of the tunnel when they heard the grenades go off.
They’d been steadily climbing the half mile of track that ran from Lime Street station through the Crown Street tunnel to the goods yard.
Everyone looked at Iris. She was holding out a wobbling hand.
Wait.
Whoever had chiseled the tunnel out of the limestone ridge had dug out square refuges for people to use in case they were trapped with a train coming at them. The trains had long gone, but the refuges were deep enough to provide cover for the resistance. They fanned out silently to both sides of the entrance to the tunnel, just far enough back to be in the shadows, just far enough forward to give them a field of fire into the yard.
Iris remained near the entrance, close to the wall, her black coat blending with the soot she had smeared on her cheeks.
She felt Cavanagh lean in close.
“We should fall back to the station.” He was so close to her she felt his lips brush her ear.
“Wait.”
“The Germans might already be here.”
“I know.”
Cavanagh looked past her into the yard, and then leaned in close again.
“This isn’t a good position to defend. We’ll be exposed if we have to fall back. This tunnel is too straight, we’ll ha
ve no cover.”
Whispering didn’t come easy to Iris. She breathed in through her nose, composed exactly what she had to say, and rested her hand on his shoulder to pull him close.
“S-sometimes the result is worth the risk.” She took another breath. “If the Bear is here, we aren’t leaving without him.”
Cavanagh nodded. The order was given, so he would do as he was told and stay at her side.
Iris turned back to the yard. The rain was getting heavier. It was slanting past the mouth of the tunnel, and a few drops brushed her cheeks. She thought about taking a step farther back into the shelter.
She didn’t.
She could just see the top of the gates over the piles of rubble. They flexed occasionally, twitching like fish on a riverbank. Whoever was out there was climbing through the hole made by the grenades.
She counted the twitches of the gate.
Fewer than fifteen men, a small force, definitely German, definitely coming into the yard.
She looked at her people behind and to the side of her.
They were well armed and well trained.
They could take them, but in doing so they might lose the Bear.
And some things couldn’t afford to be lost.
Rossett hit the deck when he heard the grenades go off. He lay still for as long as it took the sound of the explosion to echo back off the buildings to his right, then rolled across the wet ground and under one of the abandoned train cars to his left.
He had left the .303 behind. As good as the old rifle was, it was useless for creeping around in the dark with. He needed something he could bring to bear quickly and silently.
His Webley was back in his hand.
Close-up killing might be on the menu.
The hole in the fence was sixty yards away to his rear. Around him was the litter of train cars, rubble piles, and shell craters. Ahead of him three tunnels, and to his right a derelict three-story office block and outbuildings.
Rossett had lost count of the possible escape routes, which meant there was a good chance the Bear was already half a mile away. He rested his chin on his forearm.
Should he run?
The Germans outside would have radioed for backup, and Dannecker would be coming with more troops to shut down the site. The net was closing, and if Rossett didn’t want to be in it, he should get moving.
He wondered if the Bear was out there, thinking the same thing.
The rain was getting heavier. It was hissing, patting, and puttering just beyond the shelter of the freight car he was under.
He thought about Jimmy, lying in the dirt, staring up into the rain, not feeling it landing on his face and rolling down his cheeks. He thought about Neumann, kneeling, the ache of cold concrete through his trousers, grit digging into his knees as the muzzle dug into his head.
Rossett felt tired.
He was tired.
He could quit if he wanted to.
He could drop the hammer on the Webley and then drop the pistol itself.
He could run, lie low, see it out until Dannecker was either called to account for what he’d done or got away with the gold and headed into the sunset.
It wouldn’t be long, just a week, maybe less?
The rest would do him good.
Rossett shifted and rubbed his forehead on his sleeve, then looked up and out from under the train.
He thought about the little girl outside the hotel. He thought about the people being lined up in front of the guns down by the river, the people of Liverpool. He thought about the Bear laughing at him.
He thought about himself.
He wasn’t going to quit.
He never quit.
The Bear had seen the office building at the far side of the yard the moment he’d crawled under the fence. It was brooding, looming out of the shadows like a three-story-high tombstone.
The back and front of it had been pockmarked by shrapnel strikes during the bombing of the city. The soot on the brickwork hadn’t just been left by passing trains, either; somewhere along the line, a fire had partially gutted what was left after the bombs had stopped falling.
Three stories. Soot crusted, bombed out, burned out, and perfect for sniping from.
Old habits die hard.
It looked like it had once been offices for the railyard staff. The ground floor looked like it had been some sort of large enquiry office. Dotted around, charred cubicles sat empty, while over on the far side, a wide flight of stairs led up to the first floor and beyond.
The Bear headed for the stairs.
He moved like a panther. The distant spotlight shone through the gaps where the windows had once been, making his raincoat look like a swelling sea with a surface coat of oil.
He stopped at the foot of the stairs, listened, and slowly started up them. At the top, he turned left, then crossed the landing to the first office he guessed looked out onto the yard.
It did.
The office was square, with four desks spaced around the floor, each of them facing toward the center of the room. The Bear picked up a chair and carried it with one hand across to one of the desks farthest from the window.
He put the chair on the desk, slipped the pistol he had taken from Jimmy into his pocket, and then unslung the .303.
A brass cartridge shone in the half-light, then slid home ahead of the bolt.
He lifted the rear sight, adjusted it a fraction, and took up position next to the desk before resting the rifle on the back of a chair.
“When you are being chased . . .” the Bear said in a whisper.
He adjusted his position.
“. . . it is generally because the thing that is chasing you . . .”
He rolled his neck and then planted the stock into his shoulder.
“. . . isn’t scared of you.”
He looked down the sights of the .303 and adjusted them once more with his thumb and forefinger.
“The trick of not being caught . . .”
He leaned in closer to the rifle and spread his feet a little.
“. . . is to make the person chasing you . . .”
He started to slowly pan the rifle a few inches to the left, then to the right, searching out a target through the window across the room.
“. . . shit scared of you.”
He pulled the trigger.
Two soldiers, crouching by a wall.
He shot the one farthest from him, worked the bolt, and shot the second one, all in less than three seconds.
He smiled, then drove another round home.
The sound of the second soldier screaming carried across the night. The Bear panned toward the gate by the floodlight and searched for another target.
They were lying low.
He shifted again, breathing through his nose, able to hear the water falling through the holes in the roof now that the second soldier had stopped screaming. He thought about shooting out the spotlight, but decided it would do him more harm than good.
He wanted to kill one more person.
He wanted them too scared to move; he wanted them too scared to breathe.
He waited.
Saw the medic.
Then shot him.
The Bear was heading out of the room before the medic hit the ground. He took the stairs three at a time, slinging the .303 over his shoulder and pulling the revolver as he went. He didn’t worry about noise as he ran through the foyer of the building, heading for the yard and the tunnels he knew so well.
He ducked out through the door without looking toward the gates, running at a half crouch to the corner of the building. He turned, dipped, then straightened as the rain lashed his face.
He broke into a sprint, and then the world turned upside down.
Rossett hit him hard from the side.
A solid rugby tackle that blasted the breath out of his lungs and hung both men in the air for a second before they plowed into the ground in a heap.
The butt of the .303 slammed into the B
ear’s ribs.
He swiped with the revolver and managed to catch a stinging strike against Rossett’s left temple as he came around and on top of him. They rolled, again, and the Bear felt Rossett’s knuckles dig into his throat, as the Englishman grasped the collar of his shirt.
The Bear lifted his elbow, then whipped it down to break Rossett’s grip.
For an instant, he thought he had the upper hand, but Rossett used their momentum to roll them through another 180 degrees, so that he was on top again.
Rossett punched the Bear in the face.
The Bear felt his head slam into the ground and with his left arm tried to block the next blow.
He failed.
Rossett slammed a fist into his right eye, then lifted him a few inches with the hand on his collar. The Bear struggled for breath, and Rossett punched him again.
The Bear felt the back of his head slap into the mud as the white-hot pain of the punch flashed to his brain. He swiped again with the revolver, grunting with the effort, but the blow was weak, off balance, and took more out of him than it took out of Rossett. He tried to tie Rossett up with his arms. Wear the older man down. The Bear knew he was fitter; it wouldn’t take all that long for the Englishman to run out of breath.
Rossett punched him again.
It was like a mule kick. It was the sort of punch that you couldn’t take all that many of if you wanted to win a fight.
Maybe the old Lion still had some roar left in him?
The Bear pulled the trigger on the pistol.
The sound deafened him as the round screamed off into the night. The Bear felt Rossett grip his pistol wrist, so he lifted the arm that was across his face and tried to use it to go on the attack.
Rossett read the move and punched him, hard, again in the nose.
The Bear felt it go. For a moment, he couldn’t open his eyes, so he tried to cover up again.
He felt Rossett’s hand wrap around the pistol, prizing at his fingers, taking control.
He tried to roll under Rossett, who was now straddling him, almost sitting on his chest. Rossett punched him again. This time the blow hit him hard on the right side of his throat. The shock wave shorted his brain for a second. The Bear lifted his shoulder and scrabbled with his free hand, trying to find a way to grip on to Rossett. He failed. Rossett slapped his hand away and punched him again, this time on the forehead, slamming his head back into the mud with a splash.
An Army of One: A John Rossett Novel Page 32
