Mark

“I want everyone out of here now!” Liliane shouted. “Follow the plan! Make for your assigned rally points and lay low!” Ragged, panicked men scrambled about, grabbing what they could. Hale resistance fighters hauled the wounded who could walk to their feet. Thrown into mortal danger for the second time in as many days, they stank of fear. What would become of the ones who couldn’t walk, Mark had no idea. He put his head down and focused on stuffing his own meager belongings back into his rucksack.

A dud grenade, a German pistol with too few bullets, and a few rough scraps of food. He thought grimly. Could this get any worse? He reached over to the lintel of the door and rapped on it with his knuckles, hoping to avert the omen.

“Fleur!” one of the men hollered out. “Most of our meeting points were the safe houses. Where do you want us to go?”

She put a hand into the bun of her hair and pulled hard, looking like she’d like nothing better than to scream at the man. A tangle of honey blond locks came loose, trailing down her face. “Get the wounded into the tunnels, they won’t be able to outrun the Germans on the streets, but they might be able to sneak past the patrols down there. Everyone else, scatter!”

The man stopped, poleaxed. “Scatter, Fleur? We’re running?”

“Yes, sod you!” She gave the man a shove to get him moving. “If we try to stand and fight here, we’ll all be dead in an hour.”

Mark reached out and grabbed MacDougal by the elbow as he rushed past. “Sergeant,” he hissed. “What about Wight?”

Sweat beaded in the wrinkles of the grizzled old Sergeant’s face. “Let’s go find out,” he said, his mouth set in a grim line.

They took the stairs back up at a run, knocking into Frenchmen scrambling down as they went. Johnson was on his feet at the landing, with a bag slung over his shoulder. His scarred face was tight and worried.

“He’s not in good shape,” he warned the Sergeant, pushing open the door.

To his credit, Wight was sitting up on the edge of the bed, struggling into his boots. He looked like someone had killed him and hung him out to dry for three days, but at least he was moving.

“We’re leaving,” MacDougal said without preamble.

“I heard,” Wight croaked, wincing at the sudden light.

“Do you feel up to making a run for it?” Mark asked him, “Or would you rather try for creeping back out through the catacombs?”

Wight shook his head, looking queasy. “I…I don’t think I can run. I’ll try sneaking.”

“Right then.” MacDougal blew out his cheeks. “Grab whatever food you can. We don’t have Francois this time, so we might be down there a while.”

“Sarge,” Mark said urgently. “We should split up. Send one of us with Wight into the tunnels and the other two go out through the streets. Less chance of us all getting caught that way.”

“That’s…not a terrible idea,” Johnson said, sounding surprised.

MacDougal gave him an appraising look. “And who would go where?”

“Your call on that score, sir.” Just don’t send me back down into the tunnels. “We could meet back at Les Guêpes.”

“We could be in the catacombs for days.” Wight said, his face gray and pallid. “I don’t think I can move very fast.”

“That’s fine,” MacDougal said, decision firming in his eyes. “So long as it keeps you out of the German’s hands. Johnson, you’re with Wight. Mark, you’re with me. We’ll go back to Les Guêpes at noon every day for a week. If we don’t find each other by then…your orders are to make your way back to England if you can.”

Johnson nodded, hiking his bag up on his shoulder. “Yes sir. We’ll see you there in short order.”

“Good man.” He clapped Johnson on the shoulder and pressed a wad of bills into his hands. “Here, take half the cash. Mark, give them the food, we can buy grub topside.”

The exchange made, they worked their way down the stairs to the catacomb entrance, through the wine cask filled cellar. A thin resistance fighter in clothes too big for him stood by the portal, ushering people through. When he caught sight of them, he called out. “Hurry up! We’re collapsing this entrance as soon as the last of the wounded are through.”

Johnson reached out and shook Mark by the shoulder. “Keep the Sergeant safe,” he said with a half-smile. “And don’t blow anything up that doesn’t need it.”

That got a bark of laughter from MacDougal. “Take care of Wight, Johnson; we’ll see you soon.” With that, Johnson and Wight disappeared down the cellar passage, following a French resistance fighter limping on a bandaged leg.

Back upstairs, the house was emptying fast. Perhaps a dozen French fighters remained, milling nervously in the sitting room by the front door. Liliane remained, with a leather messenger’s bag at her side. She had stuffed it to overflowing, and her aviator’s goggles peaked out of the flap. “I’m sending everyone out a few at a time,” she said when she saw them. “I have people watching for any sign of the German’s moving; with a little luck we’ll all be out of here before they can hit us.”

Mark groaned. “Why did you have to go and say that?” He was reaching to knock his fist against the wooden banister when the front doors flew open. A wide-eyed resistance fighter jumped inside, slamming it closed behind him and leaning against it.

“They are coming!” He panted. “Dozens of them, flooding up the streets! We’re cut off!”

Liliane spun. “Armand, get downstairs and tell Hugo not to close the tunnel entrance-” A huge whump cut her off, shaking the house. “-yet,” she finished. “Damn it!”

“The roof!” Mark shouted. “Make for the roofs!”

They went, charging towards the stairs in a panicked press. Mark pushed through them, struggling against the tide to get to the front door. He could set an explosive there, rig it to blow when the first man came through, maybe…

“The stairs are the other way, Mark!” MacDougal bellowed at him, grabbing for his shoulder. Mark shook him off, dropping to his knees in front of the door and unslinging his bag. “What in blazes are you doing?”

“Leaving them a little parting gift!” Mark turned back. “Do you have any more of the 808?”

“You can’t solve every problem by blowing it up!” MacDougal yelled, running to him. “If you want to slow them down, then come help me!” The Sergeant grabbed him by the arm and hauled him to his feet, throwing the bolt on the door with his other hand. “We’re going to jam the stairwell. Come on!”

Mark pounded up the stairs behind MacDougal, their boots booming on the beaten, worn wood. At the first landing, the Sergeant led him into a bedroom and grabbed the heavy wooden wardrobe. It must have weighed hundreds of pounds, and it took both of them to drag it. Mark winced as it caught on the carpet, tearing a huge strip out of the old wool shag.

They lugged it back the way they’d come, reaching the top of the landing just as the front door smashed open off its hinges in a shower of wooden splinters and dust. Men shouting in German accented French poured through the door.

“Surrender! You are surrounded, give up! Surrender!”

“Push!” MacDougal grunted.

Mark pushed. The massive wardrobe toppled over onto the narrow staircase, grinding against the walls as it fell, wedging itself into place. The shouting below pitched up, like the sound of hounds on the hunt taking the scent. Rifle fire cracked from below, and a round thudded into the wardrobe, throwing wood splinters across the floor.

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“Time to go,” Mark panted, ducking as more rounds thudded into the meager cover. How long would that hold them?

They ran up the empty steps, caroming around the corners as the shouting below them grew louder. At the top, Liliane’s face peered down at them through the roof hatch, her eyes wide.

“Is there anyone else still in there?” she demanded as they came flying out of the hatch. “Did we leave anyone behind?”

MacDougal shook his head, breathing hard. “Not that we saw.”

“If there are, they’re on their own.” Mark said. Liliane hesitated with her hands on the doors, throwing Mark a frown before slamming the hatch shut. Ramming the bolt home, she turned to them, her bag slung over her shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”

They went. The other fighters scattered away, leaping to adjacent roofs in twos and threes. Below, Mark heard shouting from the street.

“Up there! They’re up top!”

Gunfire rang out, and one of the resistance fighters crumpled in mid jump, curling around himself and collapsing. His companions ran on, not even noticing that he’d fallen. Liliane made for him with a cry, but MacDougal grabbed her and spun her around.

“If we stop, we’re all done for! Go! Run, damn you!” He propelled her towards the next building with a stiff arm.

Mark almost hesitated. The gap wasn’t far, maybe a few feet or so, and the next building was lower than theirs was. Still…It was a long way down, and the street below looked very, very solid.

More cracks sounded down below, and the sound of a bullet buzzing past him like angry lead bees made his mind up. Clenching his fists, he made a dash for it, his pack bouncing against him. His feet kicked up dust and dirt behind him as MacDougal and Liliane sprinted along on either side of him.

They leaped, and Mark’s stomach fell away beneath him to the alley below. Windmilling his arms, he hung in the air for a short eternity before crashing onto the next roof, knocking tiles loose as he rolled. They went skittering over the edge to shatter on the stones below, and a moment later, his companions landed alongside him. They scrambled up together, their boots scrabbling for purchase on the slanted surface.

More rifle fire cracked out behind and below them, closer. Rounds landed in the brick of the building’s wall below them, and whizzed by overhead, forcing them to duck as they ran. Men shouted and cursed in German and French alike, a few of the now distant resistance fighters trading shots with the men on the ground. Mark saw another one topple over the edge, blood spraying from his arm. He plunged to the ground with a long trailing scream, cut off by a horrible wet crunch.

“Keep going!” MacDougal wheezed. “There!” He pointed ahead of them, to a long flat roof, easy to run across. A longer gap separated it from them, but Mark put his head down and ran for it, jumping without slowing. It had a low parapet, and he caught his foot on it, coming down hard and rolling head over heels. Liliane came down almost on top of him as he pushed back to his feet, tangled in her bag.

It left him facing the way he’d come. He saw MacDougal jump, and saw him convulse as a round took him in the back. It came out his chest, beneath his left breast, splashing blood into the air. MacDougal plummeted to the rooftop in a tumble, knocked off course by the round, and landed with a choked grunt of pain.

“Sarge!” Mark scuttled over to him on hands and knees, rolling him over.

MacDougal pushed him off, clutching at his own chest, the blood welling between his fingers. “Fuck!” he gasped, “Oh, fuck!” He coughed, spattering scarlet droplets across the ground.

“We have to get you up Sarge, come on!” Mark went for his bag. Bandages, he needed bandages.

“No!” croaked MacDougal. He grabbed Mark by the collar with his unbloodied hand. “No,” he repeated. “Find Johnson and Wight, get them out.”

“Sergeant-” Mark started to argue, but MacDougal cut him off with another wet, choking cough. His every breath gurgled, and Mark realized it was hopeless. The older man’s grip tightened on his collar, pulling him closer.

“Don’t screw it up,” he wheezed, glaring up at Mark. “Prove that I wasn’t wrong to bring you.”

And then his grip slackened, the hand clutching at Mark sagged down, and something went out of his hard eyes. All the fierce focus, the intensity that had led them here, leeched out and left them staring, blank and blue and empty. Mark’s own eyes blurred, stinging.

Liliane pulled at him. “He’s gone, Mark, he’s gone,” she said, but it wasn’t until another bullet cracked into the stone of the parapet that he came to his feet.

They ducked low and ran, leaving the Sergeant behind them. Liliane led, cutting across the building they stood on and scrambling up to the next. Confined to the streets below, the German’s shouts grew fainter as they ran.

She zigzagged across two more buildings, skidding to a stop at the edge of the last one. Mark slid into her and for a moment, they teetered on the edge of a gap too long to jump. Mark swallowed hard, looking down. Three stories below, a scattering of people sat around tables at a small café, blissfully unaware of the chaos that had ensued just a few blocks away.

“We need to get down,” he said. We need to go back and get MacDougal. He pushed the thought away.

“There’s a trapdoor over here,” Liliane said, pointing. Dirt and dust obscured it, as though no one had opened it in years. Mark heaved at it, pulling hard, and it swung open with a protesting squeal. They dropped through, and Mark took a last glance back towards where they’d left MacDougal. He didn’t see anyone following, and the shouting had died…He could run back, it wouldn’t take more than a minute.

Liliane tugged at his leg. “Close that,” she hissed. “Someone will see!”

He let it fall with a bang, showering them both in still more dust. They had come down in a dim stairwell, lit only by a little light leaking through shuttered windows. The place seemed abandoned, with grime coating the walls and floor and dust heavy in the air. No one came to protest their sudden entrance, either, as they stood panting in the dark and sudden quiet. He coughed, running a hand through his hair to knock the dirt that had fallen there loose as his eyes adjusted. Liliane ignored the mess, swinging her bag around in front of her and pulling it open, rooting through it with her free hand.

Mark sagged back against the wall, trying to catch his breath. “What are you looking for?”

“Quiet,” she hissed, thrusting a rumpled beret at him. “Here.”

He accepted it reflexively, and caught a glimpse of the bag’s contents. It was the same bag she’d used to disguise Francois, overflowing with makeup, wigs, and clothes, including the uniform he’d stripped off the dead Nazi back at Francois’ house. “What’s this for?”

“For you. Put it on, and wipe your face clean,” she answered, pulling her hair free of its bun to let it tumble down around her shoulders. Mark scrubbed the tears away from his eyes, not following her meaning, as she took her jacket off and turned it inside out before replacing it. The inside was a muted gray, where the outside had been forest green. “I wish we had a pair of glasses for you,” she muttered.

Numbly, Mark unslung his bag and pulled out Roger’s glasses to show her.

“Perfect! Put those on too.”

He did as she asked, squinting as the world went blurry. “I don’t wear glasses, you know.” These were Rogers’.

“You do right now. Here.” She pulled him over, looking him up and down. “Slouch.”

“What?”

“Slouch your shoulders. Hunch your back, too. Yes, that’s good.” She grabbed his shoulders, pushing him into position. “We’ll have to hope that holds.”

“You’re not thinking about going outside?”

“Oh yes I am!” she whispered back, fiercely. “We need to get to Francois, and to do that we need to get past the men searching for us. If we stay here, they will find us. But if we can slip the net, we’ll get away clean. Come on.” She finished by whirling on her heel and starting down the stairs.

Mark wiped sweat from his brow. “Wait just a minute!” he called after her, but she didn’t so much as slow her step. “Liliane!” She rounded the first flight of stairs and vanished from sight.

Cursing, Mark hurried after her. “We should lay low for a while,” he hissed. “There’s nobody here, we could wait until things have calmed down.” That way we can go back for MacDougal when it gets dark. He glanced down the hall branching off the stairwell as they passed it; it looked like they were in an apartment or tenement building.

“They’ll search the buildings,” she said as they reached the last landing.

“What about using the soldier’s uniform, then?” he suggested, trying to stall her.

“They’d want to know why you weren’t helping to search, what your unit is…Sorry, but i don’t think you’re that good of an actor.” she answered without pausing. “Come on.” Pushing the door open, she stepped out into the sunlight, right across from the café they’d seen from the roof.

Mark’s breath caught, but no one gave them so much as a second glance. The people eating at the café, the men walking by, even a pair of German soldiers, apparently unaware of the chase that had just taken place and sitting at a table cracking loud jokes ignored them. He hurried to draw level with Liliane and gave her a sidelong glance.

“This is insane,” he muttered, but he couldn’t keep an appreciative note out of his voice as he said it. “Clever and brave, but insane.”

She shrugged, keeping her eyes fixed in front of her. “We don’t have much choice, though I wished I’d been able to plan it out better. Look,” she said, jerking her chin down the street. “They’re hunting for us.”

He stole a quick glance in the direction she’d indicated. A team of three men wearing lightning bolt runes were working their way down the busy street. They peered at every face they passed with hungry, angry expressions. Liliane reached out and put her arm through his.

“Just act like we belong,” she said. “Don’t even look at them.” But for all the firmness in her voice, her hand trembled on his arm.

“We’re just a young couple out on a date,” Mark agreed, his own heart thudding. The German officers had closed to within a few dozen feet of them.

Liliane’s grip tightened on his bicep. One of the soldiers turned to look at them, eyes narrowing in suspicion above day old stubble. Panic surged in Mark’s chest; it was the same soldier he’d gotten manure on.

His eyes passed right over them, almost as though he didn’t see them at all. Another couple of steps put them behind him. Not daring to look back, they strode arm in arm, clutching at each other as they turned onto the main street and melted into the crowd.