Something was wrong. She saw it in the expression on his face, the way he held himself.
“Tell me!” she whispered, then saw the front of his sweatshirt at the opening of the jacket. It was soaked with blood. He'd been shot!
“Oh, God!” That was the sound she heard over the sound of the storm as they came down from the abbey church.
“You need to hold it together,” he whispered.
“How bad?”
The expression on his face told her nothing. There was no expression, no emotion. But the pain was there in that narrow gaze, eyes dark.
His game face? That was what her brother called it, one of the few times he'd opened up about what it was like when they came under attack on one of the missions he had gone out on.
“You leave it behind—the fear, the 'what-if.' You can't take it with you or you risk everyone around you. You learn to shut it off; every emotion, every thought except one—the mission, and survival.”
That's what she saw in his eyes now—that dark, cold look, shutting out everything else.
She couldn't shut it out. She started to shake, from the cold, the fear, and anger. Who was doing this? What did they want?
Hold it together...“What can I do?”
He shook his head again. “We need to get out of here.”
The causeway was a mile long. It seemed like a hundred miles. Then they were pulling into the car park at the mainland terminal.
James stood slowly, holding onto the back of the seat in front of him, then took her hand, moving along with the other tourists as they departed the tram, watching everyone, each face, pulling her behind him, as others moved ahead with their backpacks, cameras, and souvenir bags. It was then she realized what he was doing—he was shielding her!
They stepped off the tram and she immediately turned toward the row of cars where they'd left the rental. He stopped her.
“Leave it.”
“We need to get you to a hospital!”
“No hospital, no contacting the authorities.”
There was something in his voice, something she'd heard before, and knew it was useless to argue. He was right.
A clinic, records, a gunshot wound. And it was possible that Brother Thomas's body had been found by now. There was undoubtedly someone who had seen them at the abbey. The French authorities would be called in. There would be questions they had no answers for. And the killer was still out there. A hospital was the last place they could go.
He winced, glancing past her. Safety in numbers. He pulled her toward the tour bus.
They took seats near the rear of the bus, lights overhead turned low as the other passengers took their seats, conversations drifting back—about the tour, someone else's son and daughter-in-law had taken the tour earlier in the year, they really should see it in the spring when the abbey gardens were in bloom. For another couple it had been an item to check off their bucket list as the tour bus reached the roadway. Holiday travelers from a half dozen countries, students, a young couple who'd just gotten married.
And somewhere out there was a killer.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
AUGUST 6, 1944, ST. MALO
The smoke was seen long before they reached the edge of the ancient city fortress.
“It is thought there are fewer than two hundred Germans in the city, but they are strung out between five heavily fortified outposts, and they are destroying everything.” Nico whispered the information he had brought back after meeting with local resistance.
“Docks, machinery, at the harbor, and the quay, everything, so that it will not be of use to anyone.”
Paul Bennett nodded. “They're destroying the seaport.”
