It all happened so quickly, Elaine’s confusion had not yet had a chance to bleed into fear. The door to the warehouse flew open, and a puff of red mist sprayed from Antoine. He fell backward to the ground as a pool of blood spread around his head, his pencil plinking against the hard floor at his side, his eyes staring up at nothing.
Elaine staggered back, stunned.
The Gestapo and Milice were there, led by a man whose face loomed in Elaine’s nightmares, the iron cross medal gleaming at his breast.
Werner.
He stared at Marcel with his flat, metal-gray eyes. “Marcel,” he said in a calm, even voice that set the hairs on Elaine’s arms standing on end.
Jean put his hands up in surrender as Elaine backed away toward the rear door. Another burst of submachine gunfire sent Albert folding to the ground where he stood. He toppled to the floor, his white hair seeping to crimson.
Marcel ran from his side then, fast despite his limp as he grabbed Elaine’s arm and dragged her back with him.
Energy jolted through Elaine like electricity, charged by the hail of bullets chipping at the wall and floor around them as they sprinted for the door. A sharp pain bit into the back of her calf, but it scarcely slowed her as they escaped to the back terrace.
Together they ran for the rear wall. Before Elaine could consider how to scale it, Marcel was lifting her as if she weighed nothing, pitching her over the ivy-layered ledge. The back of her leg burned, but she didn’t stop to examine it as she staggered to her feet. Marcel was immediately beside her, grabbing her arm once more to pull her along.
Up ahead, Gestapo agents filled the alley.
Elaine skidded to a halt. Her gaze darted around the alley for any doorways or windows they might use for escape. And found none.
There was nothing but the lethal force behind them. And yet another in front of them.
They were trapped.
“Halt,” the Gestapo shouted, the click of their guns echoing off the high stone walls on either side of them.
Beside her, Marcel withdrew a revolver from his gray trousers. Blood spattered his body and several bullet wounds showed against his jacket, wet with streams of blood.
But when he met her eyes, there was a strange sense of serenity within them. “They will not take me alive.” His voice was weak, as if the thread of his life would soon be snipped short.
In that instant, myriad thoughts flitted through Elaine’s mind. Joseph and life without him after the war. Nicole and what was done to her. What Marcel had been subjected to and his certainty that he could not withstand another round. Her own fear that she could not endure such torture without giving away secrets that might get others killed. And in that moment, she knew with certainty she could not be taken either.
“I also don’t want that,” Elaine breathed.
Marcel shook his head. “Do not ask this of me.”
She straightened despite the pain in the back of her leg and a pinching sensation at her side. “Do not let them take me alive, Marcel,” she hissed vehemently.
“Elaine.” His face crumpled, his eyes filling with tears.
The jackboots pounded the pavement, coming closer.
His hand shook as he lifted the gun, its barrel mere inches from Elaine’s torso. “May God forgive me,” he whispered.
The gun went off and pain exploded in Elaine’s chest with an impact that sent her flying to the ground. A weight seemed to settle against her solar plexus, pressing the air from her lungs and making her heart beat in heavy, thick pumps. In the distance came another single shot as the world went dark.
At least in their terrible world of ugliness and hate and war, she had managed to save Sarah and sweet little Noah. For they were her last thought as she slid into a velvety abyss. Without fear. Without pain. Without hope.