France

1940

2:45 a.m.

A car crossed a stone bridge leading into town and parked behind the jail. The driver killed the engine; Drake and the other fighters stepped out the car, weapons ready for any sign of trouble. Drake scanned the surrounding buildings, shutters and windows closed for the night.

Moonlight peered through the opalescent sky of blue and black. The town was silent, carrying the tiny footsteps of field mice scurrying in the alleyways. Drake narrowed his eyes, finger resting against the trigger. They approached the backdoor of the jail house and knocked three times.

A slide in the door opened, showing a wary set of eyes. The jailer and a resistance fighter conversed in French. Judging by the jailer’s tone, Drake deduced that the conversation did not steer in their favor. He pushed the fighter away and with a brute kick, unhinged the wooden door, crushing the jailer behind it.

Drake stepped in and stomped the jailer’s neck with his boot. Another man sitting on the desk flinched and fell from his seat. He reached for the pistol on his desk but failed to unholster, as Drake grabbed his head and slammed it on the desk. He screamed in anguish, blood streaming down his face. To ensure his silence, Drake slammed his head three more times, and the man’s body went still.

One of the resistance fighters gulped and posted near the front door. While the fighters scourged through the office, Drake made his way to the jail cells downstairs.

Light did not prevail here. It reeked of soiled straw and spoiled yeast. In the center of the passageway stood stacks of wine barrels. Lining the passageways lived the jail cells which instead of wine, now housed prisoners. Rats scurried and chittered in the darkness, disappearing through cracks in the walls that led to the rotting ceiling.

Drake’s eyes provided the only light here, like a pair of blue pearls in the ocean’s depth. He passed a row of empty cells when something gripped his jacket and pulled. He growled and turned towards a cell where an imprisoned man scrutinized him head to toe.

“Those eyes…” he rasped. “I’ve seen eyes like those before in the war. You’re a devil!”

Drake swatted his arm and stepped back. His vision adjusted to the dark to make out the feral man before him. The man’s arms hung outside the cell, leaning against the iron bars. He muttered hysterically, none of his words comprehensible. Drake stood eye level to him, blue eyes fierce.

“Speak of the devil and he shall appear,” Drake said, grinning and revealing the razor-sharp teeth in his mouth.

He chuckled and left the cell, identifying Dubois towards the end.

He found Dubois fast asleep amid his cell in a pile of hay, empty liquor bottles surrounding him. The man covered his eyes with an arm, groaning and twisting and turning. Drake waited, watching in silence. Dubois reached for a bottle, grabbing only air. After a few attempts, it infuriated him and he sat up, face a dark red.

“Get me another fucking bottle!” he said to no one in particular.

Dubois grabbed one of the empty bottles and flung it against the wall. Exhausted, he fell back into the pile of straw, clutched his stomach, and vomited. His inebriation distracted him as Drake pulled apart the bars with ease and stepped inside.

“Most of you humans smell the same — such disgusting creatures…”

Dubois snorted derisively and reached for another bottle. “You got more booze?”

“You’re Charon Dubois?”

He nodded and slurred his words. “Last time I checked…”

Charon held the bottle to his tongue, relishing in the few drops of booze that fell. He repeated the process with the remaining bottles in the room. Drake reached for the photo in his pocket and presented it to him. “Do you know who this woman is?”

Charon squinted, and before he could speak, turned away to hurl. Drake grabbed him and shoved the photo in his face. “Is this Irene Irons from India! White hair, violet eyes! She played the violin — !”

The mad man guffawed. He caught Drake’s attention! “We’re all gonna die tonight! They’re coming! They’re on the way!”

The dungeon rumbled, dust and stone falling. It continued and stopped suddenly. Drake looked up where light bulbs above the passage swung like pendulums. And the dungeon rumbled again, the booming noise above much closer this time. The mad man’s cackles with the perpetual booms could drive a healthy man mad.

Drake inhaled through gritted teeth. He grabbed Charon’s collar and held the photo before him. “IS THIS THE REAL IRENE IRONS YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

Charon sobbed, eyes blinded by tears. “Yes! Yes! That’s her! That’s her!”

Drake sighed, and his grip loosened. Charon fell and curled himself into a ball. Footsteps clattered down the passage from the stairway. A resistance member appeared at the cell, the terror in his eyes apparent. The fighter’s voice quavered. “G — Germans! They’re coming! We need to leave now!”

He departed. A lightbulb crashed to the ground. The archaic wood holding up the ceiling and walls creaked and screamed from each outburst. Drake grabbed Dubois and shouldered his weapon. One handed, he grabbed the man by his suspenders and carried him upstairs; the mad man screamed and jumped in his cell. He met the other fighters outside, waiting for him by the car.

In front of the jail, the Nazi soldiers ignited the engine of a half-track. The half-track came into view, racing down the streets to intercept them at the bridge. With the fire power it carried, disabling their car would be child’s play.

Drake opened the door and tossed Dubois in, then slammed it shut. He grabbed a hold of the roof rack and planted his feet on the sliders.

Drake tapped the fighter hanging on behind him. “Protect Dubois! I’m going to take out that half-track. I’ll meet you at the drop zone.”

The man nodded.

As the car sped onto the bridge, Drake jumped off, tucking and rolling behind cover. The half-track approached, and he took the grenade resting on his jacket and pulled the pin. Hot steam released from the pineapple shaped explosive as it cooked. Drake allowed the armored vehicle to pass him before lobbing the grenade into the troop compartment.

A German screamed, and the grenade exploded into a fog of combustion and blood. The half-track halted, and a man fell from the carriage, a leg missing. The half-track engine continued running, but with each passing moment grew duller until dying. Smoke plumes rose from the carriage where a group of half-dead soldiers lay.

Drake strolled towards them, shooting the wounded man in the head. As he approached the carriage, he aimed his weapon towards the first German, raising his hands to surrender. He shot the man in the face with cold deliberation. Then he turned towards the others and executed them with the same swift finality.

He shouldered his weapon and watched the fleeing car race through the town, explosions landing closer to it each time. His worst fear came to realization…

An explosion hit a few feet shy from the car, causing the driver to lose control and crash into a cafe front. Drake looked to the east as German tanks and armored vehicles started their engines; hordes of infantry accompanying him. This was the same to the west; the same to the north and south.

Then the screaming started.