Mark

They found Francois still in Les Guêpes, talking over a glass of afternoon wine with Phillipe. Instead of the booth they’d met the man in before, the pair were sitting out in the nearly empty main room at a table, sitting on a pair of stools. The radio provided a thin stream of background noise, tinny and distant and turned down almost to nothing. The blackmarket middleman noticed them first, one thin eyebrow going up as he paused, his glass halfway to his mouth. Francois noticed the change in his expression and turned in his seat. His eyes widened, and he pushed back away from the table, shooting up to his feet.

“Liliane? What has happened?” He rushed to her, pushing Mark out of the way. “Mon dieu…your arms!” He ran his fingers across her wrists, where a few angry red scrapes showed. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine,” she said, pushing his hands away. “It’s only scratches. I took a tumble.”

“A bit more than a tumble, I think.” Phillipe said, studying them. “Why don’t you sit, have something to drink?”

Mark shook his head. “There’s no time. Francois, they found us.”

The Frenchman spun around to face him. “What?” Glancing between Mark and Liliane, he saw the truth of it in their haggard expression and his jaw tightened. “Why is it that disaster seems to always be one step behind you?” he hissed, his black eyes flashing. “We were fine until you people came along.”

“Francois,” Liliane said wearily. “It’s not his fault. With so many people coming and going, we knew it was a risk. They followed Gaston back.”

“Gaston?” He turned, frowning. “He was always very careful, and he would not have given us up.”

“They beat him nearly senseless, then made him drink until he was stupid,” Mark offered. “After he was blind drunk, they cut him loose and followed him right to us.”

“Damn,” Francois cursed. “But you made it out.” It wasn’t a question, but Liliane nodded.

“Some of us.” Mark leaned over and plucked Francois’ half-finished wine glass off the table, downing it in a long swallow and drawing a scandalized look from Francois–more for the way he was drinking it, than for the theft. The dark red liquid cut through the gummy dust that had filled his mouth. “We made a run for it along the rooftops, scattering.”

“What about the wounded?” Francois asked, frowning.

“We sent them back down into the catacombs. Some of them might make it,” Liliane said.

Francois turned to look at Mark. “I assume that’s where Wight is.”

He nodded, exhausted. “And Johnson. We told them to meet us here when they could. MacDougal came with us on the roofs but he...” Mark stopped, swallowing hard, unable to go on. What little color was left in Francois’ face went out of it.

Phillipe broke in, clearing his throat. “So... I take it you won’t be needing that food shipment.”

Mark spun on the man; he’d forgotten he was even there. The smuggler lounged on the ragged cushions covering the bench, studying them over his glass. “Did I hear you say that your friends would be coming here? Chased, presumably, by half the Gestapo?”

“Just Johnson and Wight.” Mark said, warily. “And they’ll be careful.”

“My confidence in your abilities to dodge the Germans is overwhelming,” he said, draining the last of his wine. “Nonetheless, I think it’s time I go.” He pushed himself up, straightening his shirt.

Mark narrowed his eyes. “And where, pray tell, are you going?”

“Somewhere else,” he said, waving to the street. “The countryside is nice this time of year, I think. I don’t know how they’re tracking all of you down, but they’ve found you twice now. Third time pays for all, and I want no part of it.”

“So you plan to tuck tail and run?” Francois asked in a flat voice. “You were happy enough to take our money.”

“Oh yes!” he laughed. “I wish you all the best, but I have no desire to be noticed by those jackbooted thugs. That’s bad for business.”

“Speaking of business…” Mark glared at him. “I think you owe us some money back.”

Phillipe peered down at him in bemusement. “How do you figure?”

“We never received the food we paid for.” Mark spread his hands. “It strikes me that we’re owed something.”

Phillipe laughed at that, utterly unconcerned, and Mark’s glare wilted. “It’s hardly my fault that you can’t take possession of those goods. No, I like your brass boy, but there are no refunds in this business. If you need something, come find me in the next couple of days.”

Mark gave Phillipe a twisted smile. “What’s your customer service number? I’d like to lodge a complaint.”

The dealer grabbed his hat off the post of the bench, pulling it onto his head. “I’d get out of town as soon as you can,” he advised, his expression turning serious as he made for the door. “Seriously. I’d hate to have to attend your executions.”

Francois watched him go, his face full of disgust. “That man is nothing more than a war profiteer.”

“At least he’s not selling us out to the Germans,” Mark sighed. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“What about Wight and Johnson?” Francois asked with a frown.

“The plan was to check in every day at noon.” Mark said, rising. “They’re probably still in the catacombs.”

“You can check back for them tomorrow.” Liliane agreed.

He looked to her. “What about you? What will you do?”

“Find as many of my people as I can. Get them organized, and then start building over again.” Her voice was heavy, and she reached down to touch the lens of the goggles peeking out of her bag. “Drop a bomb on Hitler’s stupid mustache, if I get a chance.”

That brought a crooked smile to Mark’s face. “I’d like to see that.”

Francois stood and pushed past them. “Time enough for that later. Come, I know a boarding house near here. The owners are friends, and they won’t ask questions.”

…

They spent three days hiding in the boarding house, stepping out only to buy a few small meals and to check Les Guêpes for any sign of Wight and Johnson. On the fourth day, Francois returned more grim-faced than usual.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

“You had better come see this,” he said, his mouth a bitter twist.

Liliane and Mark followed him out of the house, onto the street. Mark pulled the beret Liliane had given him over his head, the short stubble on his head catching in the fabric. Liliane had cut both his and Francois’ hair short, and had used her makeup and brushes to age them each twenty years. “We could dye your hair blond too.” She joked. “I hear the Germans like that.” He’d declined, as had Francois, but he’d kept the beret and Rogers’ glasses, even if he had to squint to see through them. Put all together, they made a decent enough disguise. Of course, now he looked nothing like the forged paperwork in his pocket. If they were stopped now, he’d be doomed.

Out on the street, men and women flowed towards the main thoroughfare. Their expressions ranged from grim to agitated, and they babbled like brook water as they streamed down the tributary streets, full of nervous energy. Caught up in the crowd, the three of them let the flow of people carry them down the cobblestone roads until they fetched up against a line of police. Not Germans, but regular French police. They stood braced, ready to hold back the flood of people with stern expressions and batons.

They needn’t have bothered. The Parisians wanted to see, but they didn’t want to get too close. Mark gave the police a sour look from under the brim of his beret, and he could feel Liliane and Francois glaring as well. These men had thrown their lot in with the Germans, for one reason or another, and in Mark’s mind they were as guilty as the occupiers for all the misery the city had seen. He wasn’t alone in that opinion–many of the Parisians around them muttered curses or spat at the ground near the policemans’ feet–but none got too close. They didn’t want to risk being added to the carts full of prisoners.

Trundling down the avenue came a row of trucks, loaded with men and women with their hands bound to the wooden slats of the truck beds. Mark sucked in a breath; he recognized a few of the faces. They were resistance fighters that he’d met briefly at Liliane’s headquarters. From behind him, he heard her faint gasp. Many of the men were bloodied, and a few slumped boneless, held up only by their bonds. One of them stared blindly out over the crowd, his face purple with bruises and his eyes swollen shut.

Mark scanned the trucks, his heart sinking. He wasn’t sure which he feared worse; seeing his friends aboard the trucks, or not finding them there. Please let them have slipped the net. He prayed silently. I never ask you for anything, so just please let them have escaped.

If God was listening, he chose not to answer. In the second to last truck, he saw Johnson’s scarred face, his eyes hollow. He was twisting his hands against the ropes that secured him to the wooden two by fours, to no effect. Mark tried to catch his eye, but the older man’s gaze slipped over his disguise without a hint of recognition. Wight slumped next to him, hanging from his bonds, looking dazed. Both of them wore a myriad of bruises and cuts.

Francois was at his elbow. “Did you see them?” he hissed as the trucks growled their slow way past.

“Yah,” Mark said. “Yah, I did. They’re alive, that’s something at least.”

“Some of them.” Francois growled, and Mark realized he’d meant his fellow Resistance friends, not the two Englishmen mixed among them. “I did not see them all. A few escaped. We can fight on.”

“Of course,” Mark said, leaden. MacDougal’s last words echoed in his mind. “Find Johnson and Wight.” Well, I found them Sarge. Now what? Liliane tugged at their sleeves, her face worried. Mark let her drag him along, slipping back out of the crowd, but his legs felt like wood. “Where do you suppose they’re taking them?”

“To the trains first.” Francois scowled in distaste, shaking of his cousin’s hand. “We should have blown the rail lines when we had the chance. They’ll ship them north, into Germany. Brussels first, probably. From there, who knows?”

“They found most of their families,” Liliane said quietly, and Mark saw that it was so. The last truck was crowded with confused children, their grimy, tear streaked faces pressed to the gaps in the slats. One of them howled for his mother, a miserable, hollow sound.

“Why are they showing us this?” Francois flexed his hands, squeezing them into fists. “This might be good for us; the people will be angry, they’ll want to fight back.”

“No.” Mark shook his head. “Look around you; Paris is terrified. They want us to see, they want all of France to know what it means to resist them.”

A shadow fell over Francois’ face as he surveyed the huddled people. “Cowards,” he spat.

“No,” Liliane interjected in a tired voice. “They’re just normal people, scared of losing what little they have left.”

They made the trip back to the hostel in silence, on wooden feet. MacDougal’s voice gnawed at Mark. Get them out. How was he going to do that now? He trudged up the stairs in Francois’ wake, not really seeing. In the tiny room the three of them shared, he set to packing his things back into his bag.

Liliane sat on the sagging edge of her bed and watched him. “You’re leaving?”

“I’ll need to hurry.”

Francois turned away from him, folding his arms. Disapproval radiated from the man like heat from a stove, but he said nothing.

Liliane bowed her head. “We can help you get to Tours. Past that…you’ll probably be on your own.”

He nodded, not really listening. “Have you ever had anyone come in from further north?”

“Sure.” She said, shrugging. “We have…had, at least, people as far as Brussels. I have no idea if they’re still there.”

He stood, pulling the drawstrings of his pack tight. “Can you tell me how I might find those people?”

She raised her head, tilting it to one side to look at him. Francois turned back to face him as well, frowning. “England is the other way, you know.”

“I know. But Johnson and Wight are going North. So I have to follow that train.”

There was a long, pregnant moment of silence. “You’re going to follow the train,” Francois said in a flat voice. “And what?”

Mark smiled at him. He had to force the expression, and it was pure bravado that felt like more of a grimace than a grin on his lips. “Break them free, of course. Then it’s the same plan as before, to sneak back south.”

“Through hundreds of miles of occupied territory? Alone?” The words were disbelieving, but Liliane’s eyes lit as she said it. “What a fantastically terrible idea.”

“You are completely mad.” A smile crept across Francois’ face. “You’ll be dead or captured inside of a week.”

Mark squinted at Francois, trying to decide which part of that he found so delightful. “So, who do I look for in Brussels?”

“Francois is right, you’ll never make it.” She shook her head. “At the very least, not alone.” Mark frowned at her, and she went on. “I know that route. My family and I used to travel to Brussels every summer, and to Dortmund. Francois and I will come with you.”

Francois scowled at her. “Fleur, if we go, who will lead the Resistance here?”

She threw her hands up. “What Resistance? The Resistance is out there, being loaded onto a train as we speak!”

“Neither of you have to come,” Mark said. “I don’t think you’d find a bookie in all of London willing to make odds on our success.” Don’t screw it up. The dead Sergeant’s voice again, willing him on. Of course, it was all in his head, the real MacDougal would never counsel anything so rash. He’d have told Mark to head for Gibraltar and safety. But for all that, the Sergeant himself would never have abandoned his men. Not if there was the faintest chance of saving them.

“Well it’s not as if our life expectancy could be much lower.” She came to her feet. “Come on Francois; are you in? We could use you.”

“Absolutely. We’d miss your cheerful disposition,” Mark said, deadpan.

Francois ignored him, looking instead to Liliane. “If you are going, I will follow you. For your sake.”

“For our comrades’ sake,” she insisted, rolling her eyes. “I’m no child, cousin.”

“We’d better go soon,” Mark said. “I don’t know if we can get a car, but we’ll need to follow that train until we can figure out a way to bust them loose. And the Germans are watching for people headed south, but if we’re going north…”

“They won’t be watching at all!” she finished, laughing.

“I can arrange a car,” Francois said. “Gas will be tricky…”

They dissolved into a discussion of how to manage the logistics of the trip, how to get past checkpoints. Some of the points Mark had thought of, but there were broad gaps in his knowledge that the other two helped fill.

Maybe we have a chance, he thought, his spirits lifting, and MacDougal’s words echoed in his head again.

Prove that I wasn’t wrong to bring you.