The Barbed Crown (The Vatican Knights Book 13)

by Rick Jones

  Ephraim offered one of his rare smiles. “You should be,” he said. “If we fail, Dror, I’ll see you on the other side. It certainly has to be better than this.”

  “I agree.”

  At the door stood a kapo who appeared oblivious to his immediate surroundings, his main focus on the gray swirls and eddies that drifted through the sky.

  Dror reached into a hidden pocket stitched into the lining of his pants and produced a shiv. What was once a long wooden splinter from the post of a bed-bunk, was now a weapon whose point was as keen as the tip of an icepick. The handle was heavily bandaged as well, the banded fabric perhaps from a shirt.

  Dror pointed it at the kapo. “I’ll take care of him,” he said. “You set the charges.”

  Ephraim headed for the shadows and the urns.

  While Ephraim slipped away, Dror took a long pull of air through his nostrils and released it with an equally long sigh, the moment one of forcing calm upon himself. Then he took the shiv into his grip until he became white-knuckled, and approached the kapo from behind with steps as prudent as a feline, slow and steady.

  * * *

  Ephraim’s heart was beating madly inside his chest, almost to the point where he was sure that the organ was railing against his ribs.

  He entered the shadows where three urns topped with gray dustings of ash to hide the gunpowder inside stood. The canisters appeared like missiles: thin at the top and bottom, wide in the middle. Reaching for the first urn, Ephraim lifted it and held it close to him as if it was a precious child, and made his way to the ovens.

  * * *

  Dror was soundless as a wraith as he neared the kapo with shiv in hand. When he was about ten feet away, the kapo’s shoulders stiffened as if sensing danger.

  Dror stopped.

  The kapo cocked his head as if to validate what he thought to be a nearby sound, and listened.

  Dror held the shiv in a death grip.

  And then the kapo pivoted quickly on the balls of his feet to face Dror, their eyes locking the briefest of moments before the kapo’s eyes drifted downward to the point of Dror’s shiv.

  As the kapo reached for his whistle and brought it to his lips, Dror closed the gap quickly and ran the shiv deep with repeated stabs. But the kapo got off a blast of his whistle, a shrill that caught the attention of a pair of SS guards.

  Dror dragged the body inside and laid it on the floor. Then he turned to Ephraim with a look that was like the Greek mask of tragedy. The mission was lost before it had ever begun.

  Ephraim, however, gave Dror a neutral look as always, as he cradled the three-foot urn within his arms. “It’s all right,” he told him. “It’s not over.”

  “Two guards are coming. I couldn’t get to the kapo in time. He must have heard me.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Dror. Head out the side door. I’ll manage the rest.”

  “What are you going to do, Ephraim?”

  “I’m going to give you time to see the mission through. Now go.”

  “Ephraim—” Dror cut himself short.

  “It’s all right, Dror. Give everyone else a chance.”

  The guards were coming fast with the points of their submachines guns ready.

  “Go, Dror. The success of all this depends on timing.”

  Dror’s face became a look of agony. And then he was gone, out the side door just as the SS guards entered the crematorium.

  They saw the kapo on the floor, the blood from his wounds running along the grout lines between the bricks as if they were gutters. Then they focused their undivided attention on Ephraim who was holding an urn, something they both recognized.

  “The other Sonderkommando, where is he?” shouted one of the guards.

  “I’m the only one here,” said Ephraim.

  The SS guards stepped inside the crematorium and carefully searched the shadows, the corners.

  Then the taller of the two guards turned the point of his weapon on Ephraim. “Tell me where he is, Jew, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

  Ephraim gave him a wink. “He’s running towards freedom,” he told him. Then he hoisted the urn above his shoulders, and tossed it into the raging fires inside the oven.

  * * *

  Just as Dror reached the third cart so that the team could begin their run towards the armory, there was an explosion in the crematorium. Rolling balls of fire exploded through the open doorway and windows, nothing but orange and an all-consuming heat, which quickly evolved into columns of black smoke.

  Dror pushed the cart along feeling a sudden and heavy loss. Ephraim was gone, sacrificing his life so that others could have a chance.

  The guards, too, were lost, killed in the explosion no doubt, since Dror could feel the powerful concussive waves from his position well beyond the facility.

  But as powerful as the blast was, the chimney remained standing.

  * * *

  The explosion rocked the entire garment factory.

  The moment the floorboards beneath Ayana’s workstation rattled and shook, she knew the Sonderkommandos had marked the moment for their run to freedom.

  The guard who policed the floor exited the front of the building with his weapon ready, which gave Ayana and a few others the opportunity to retreat through the rear of the facility. As they entered the compound, they saw people in banded garments scattering to all directions as SS guards gravitated to the location of the crematorium.

  Black smoke ruled the sky.

  Chaos ruled the grounds.

  And Ayana, with several others, ran for the gate.

  * * *

  Benjamin not only heard the blast, but felt the concussive waves as well.

  Benjamin turned to the members of his team working by the pump, though nothing had to be said since they had discussed their blueprint of escape until it had become second nature to them. Responding quickly, Haim and Gilead removed the shivs hidden in the lining of their garments, and took a wide berth to come up behind the SS guards who continued to man the armory. Benjamin and Yitzhak, as planned, began to drive the second pushcart toward the armory’s doors.

  But the guards were highly disciplined and highly trained. Of the nine guards posted, two had left their posts, leaving behind seven soldiers and two dogs.

  In the guard towers, the .50 caliber machine guns had been directed to all lanes leading to the main gate and the motor-pool, with the established directive to kill anyone who approached without the proper authority. In other words: shoot now and ask questions later.

  * * *

  Dror and the pushcart team met up with the second team, and together began their journey to meet up with Weiner and Avraham. They would use the pushcarts as a form of cover while making their way to the armory gate. By then, Benjamin’s team was to be in full control of the facility. Then from the armory the mission’s plan was to take out the guards in the tower with firepower and charges, destroy the motor-pool, and blow the gate.

  But plans always worked best on paper and rarely in life.

  * * *

  Ayana took the lead in her run for freedom.

  Ala was nowhere around, nor were the others who were in league with her from the munition’s depot, which was quite a distance from the main gate.

  Klaxons blared, long and loud.

  And the guards responded quickly by gathering themselves into formations.

  As Ayana led her team toward the gate, all she could see were the columns of smoke rising from the crematorium.

  * * *

  Haim and Gilead separated from Benjamin and Yitzhak, and closed in on the guards who had their attention completely absorbed by what was going on at the crematorium. The dogs, however, were creatures that were naturally innate with omniscient senses.

  The two Jews approached stealthily with the shivs gripped tightly in their hands, their footfalls on the gravel silent as they came upon a guard standing sentinel away from the rest. Haim, who had his sight set on this particular guard, raised the shiv, then w
rapped a hand around the guard’s mouth. He then pulled the soldier against him and came around with the shiv again and again and again, the point stabbing repeatedly until the soldier finally went limp. After laying the soldier slowly to the ground and appropriating his submachine gun, Haim waved Gilead to join him.

  Then the dogs turned against their intruders, barking and snapping their jaws while pulling against their leashes.

  Haim, in response, raised his weapon and pulled the trigger.

  * * *

  The moment Dror and the pushcart teams met up with Weiner and Avraham, that’s when they heard the staccato burst of gunfire. A moment later there were more shots, a return volley.

  “Let’s move it, people!” Dror yelled. “Benjamin and his team are paving the way!”

  Together, the pushcart teams headed for the gate that led to the armory.

  * * *

  Benjamin and Yitzhak made it to the weapons depot. The area was large and vast like a warehouse. There were boxes and crates piled high everywhere, the entire cache a treasure trove of armaments.

  They immediately raced for the first stack of crates and pulled the top one down, the box smashing hard against the concrete floor and the lid popping free. Submachine guns spilled everywhere.

  Benjamin grabbed the one nearest him, pulled back the rack, saw that the chamber was empty, and issued a simple command to Yitzhak. “Look for the ammo,” he told him. “They have to be close by.”

  Yitzhak nodded and started to open the smaller crates. Nothing but Lugers and small arms. Then he turned to his father who was loading the weapons onto the cart. “Papa!” He shrugged, the motion telling Benjamin that he couldn’t find the ammunition.

  “Keep looking, Yitzhak! It has to be there!”

  He did, peeling off lid after lid. Still, he couldn’t find the ammo.

  * * *

  Bullets stitched across the chests of two SS guards, the wounds opening and paring back as red mist exploded from the impacts. Haim had been true with his aim, killing two before the others could respond.

  Haim pressed forward with his weapon firing from hip level, the weapon’s barrel panning from left to right, then right to left.

  The dogs barked manically, their jaws salivating. Then one of the canines was struck with gunfire, the rounds knocking it off its hind legs and to the ground behind it, the animal dead. The other kept barking in a fit of rage and fury, then was able to pull free from its leash, the creature then running and lunging forward, its body soaring gracefully through the air.

  After taking two more guards down while swinging his weapon from side to side, Haim tried to redirect his aim. Couldn’t. The dog was upon him within a time that was almost too fast to comprehend, its jaws latching onto the barrel of the submachine gun, twisting, the gun almost coming free from Haim’s grasp. The canine was savage and brutal and powerful, its technique to neutralize the weapon from Haim’s control having the desired effect.

  The three standing guards brought their weapons up in unison and pulled the triggers. And Haim, no longer having the ability to raise his weapon against the dog’s might, felt the impacts of the rounds punching through his flesh. Each absorption of the bullet was like a stab of white-hot pain, his body quickly becoming a tabernacle of screaming pain as he was shoved backward by the impacts and thrown to the ground where he lay alongside the body of the canine, who also became a victim during the exchange.

  Gilead, holding his shiv, the man having come to a gunfight with a knife, dropped the makeshift weapon and began to run away. A moment later, however, he was cut down as bullets tracked along the ground behind him, caught up, then raced up along his backside as new wounds opened a moment before he went to the gravel.

  * * *

  Ayana heard the gunfire. They all did. What followed the firefight, however, was silence, which led those taking flight toward freedom to believe that new ground had been taken by Benjamin’s team.

  The guard towers were now in sight, as was the main gate.

  But the towers still stood.

  Nor was there a breach in the gate to present them with a run to the tree line.

  Their timing was off. The charges had yet to be placed.

  And the guards were directing their weapons on the women who approached by the scores.

  A moment later the weapons went off, the rounds so powerful they tore limbs from joints, smashed gaping holes though stomachs, abdomens, blowing entrails all over the gravel and spicing the stones with colors of red.

  Ayana turned and called out to the others, telling them to fall back, which they did. But the towers continued to fire off their weapons, dropping the women as they ran, some falling like rabbits to the ground, fast and with the face-first approach. Those who were too slow or had lost the ability to move quicker due to weakened health, also fell to the machine guns. Within moments the lane leading to the gate was littered with bodies, the run for freedom a massacre with the gravel spotted and stained in several shades of red.

  Ayana, along with several others, as the guns continued their attack, ran for the safe haven of cover as fast as their feet would take them.

  Most, however, did not outrun the hail of gunfire.

  * * *

  Frederic Becher met up with the rest of his unit inside the compound close to the guards’ barrack. The klaxons continued to whine, the noise ear-shattering. Black smoke continued to rise from the crematorium. And SS guards barked commands with sweeping gestures to the Jews to clear the area.

  Becher, standing in line as his squad leader spoke, saw Ayana running across the compound aiding another woman, the two so close they appeared as one. Tufts of dirt erupted all around them from the heavy rounds. Others fell, the bodies collapsing as if they were dead before they hit the ground. Ayana remained with the woman who was obviously wounded, even though it slowed their pace dramatically, until a bullet hammered through the back of the woman’s head and exited through the front, her face now a gaping hole, and fell forward. Ayana’s face became blood-splashed, the warm wetness striking her with obvious surprise as she stood idle, even shocked. The gravel jumped all around her like Mexican jumping beans, the rounds missing but closing in.

  Run, Ayana! RUN!

  As if she heard Becher’s mental cry from afar, Ayana began to zigzag her way across the compound until she found her way around the corner of a barrack.

  Becher exhaled internally. Good girl, he thought.

  …Good girl…

  * * *

  Benjamin was loading the cart with firearms when three SS guards approached him with their weapons raised. He immediately thought of Yitzhak, his son, so young that he had hardly lived life at all.

  In gut reaction Benjamin removed his shiv, essentially a useless tool against automatic weapons, and gripped it tightly in his hand. “Run, Yitzhak! Run!” Then he ran toward the guards baring teeth that had become canary-yellow over time, screaming and hollering like a crazed man.

  The guards, however, cut Benjamin down before he could take his fifth step.

  * * *

  “Run, Yitzhak! Run!”

  It was the voice of his father, one of warning. A moment later there was another cry, like a warrior taking lead in a battle charge against his enemies, only for it to be cut short with a volley on gunfire.

  Yitzhak lowered the lid to the crate and looked toward the armory’s door. “Papa!”

  Silence.

  “Papa!” Yitzhak raced for the entryway, only to be confronted by three SS guards.

  In the backdrop and laying on the gravel was Benjamin, his body peppered with gunshot wounds.

  “Paaaaaapaaaaa!”

  As Yitzhak tried to work his way past the guards, one of the soldiers struck Yitzhak across the chest with his weapon, the force knocking Yitzhak to the brick floor. Then he directed his aim at the boy. “What was your purpose to break into the armory?” he asked.

  Yitzhak started to cry. “For weapons,” he mustered.

  “Th
at’s obvious,” said the SS guard. “But what was the purpose?”

  Yitzhak looked at his father, who was bleeding out. Then he saw the other two, Haim and Gilead, also dead. They were the absolute tip of the spear created to penetrate the front lines and to open a gateway for others, only to fail miserably at the attempt.

  “For what purpose?” the guard repeated.

  Yitzhak wiped away the tears with a swipe of his sleeve. “To plant charges along the towers and at the gate. We needed the weapons to push ahead in order to do so.”

  “Charges?”

  Yitzhak nodded. “The urns.”

  The guard had no idea what he was talking about. “Stop speaking in riddles. What are you talking about?”

  “Inside the cart. Beneath the tubing and materials,” the boy said. “We were going to use them to take down the guard towers and blow the gate. We were making a run to freedom.”

  The SS soldier waved off the other two guards to check the cart, which they did.

  “A run to freedom,” the guard said out loud to himself, keeping his weapon steady. “Is that what happened with the crematorium? You set off a charge?”

  “Not us. Another.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  When the SS guard lifted his weapon and directed the mouth of the barrel to Yitzhak’s face, the seventeen-year-old held up his hand in submission. “Dror!” he yelled. “I only know him as Dror. I don’t know his last name. He’s a Sonderkommando in the crematorium that went up.”

  “Was he the one who designed this attempt?”

  Yitzhak nodded. Yes.

  “Alone?”

  Another nod, this time ‘no.’

  “Who else?”

  “A man by the name of Ephraim. He’s also a Sonderkommando.”