The Pale House (55 page)

Simo and
broke into a run.

“HALT!” screamed the Untersturmführer.

“
Run!
” called Reinhardt, staying back, trying to stay between them and the others, the SS and the UstaÅ¡e. He fired his MP 40, stabbing a line of bullets into the street behind the Partisans' heels, as if opening fire on them. He turned back to the Untersturmführer, lifted his hand, and saw
heave something into the air, watched it tumble overhead, bounce off the wall and land with a wooden thunk. Reinhardt pulled
and Neven to the ground as the stick grenade exploded. There was a short scream, and Reinhardt was rolling back toward the SS and Ustaše. Many were down, but the Untersturmführer was still standing,
behind him, and they were firing at him, the Ustaša's eyes crazed with a kind of blurred focus. Reinhardt took a moment, aimed carefully, and fired back, emptying the magazine. The MP 40 juddered agonizingly against his injured wrist, and the two of them were hurled backward as he stitched his fire across them.

The weapon clicked empty, and he dropped it, rising to one knee, shrugging
MP 40 from his shoulder and unfolding the stock as a clutch of SS opened fire on him. The bullets clacked past as they fired, high and wild, and he was still and cold as he hunched into the MP 40, pushing it hard forward on its straps, aimed, dropped one, then shifted to a second, but there was a ripping shatter of fire from behind him as Benfeld opened up with the turret gun. Reinhardt collapsed flat as the air overhead was threaded thick with metal, the walls and pavement vanishing in clouds of dust and brick as Benfeld hosed his fire across the street, and the SS and Ustaše were tossed back and down.

In the sudden silence Reinhardt surged to his feet, let the MP 40 fall on its strap, turned, and hauled
and the boy up. They ran to the others. The grenade had caught both of them from behind and shredded their clothing.
was dead, the back of his head pulped, and a huge pool of blood glistened beneath him, making islands of the street's cobbles as it flowed in sluggish twists away from his body. Simo moaned as he clawed at the street with his arms, one leg useless behind him. He hauled himself to his side, saw
, and cursed bitterly, biting back on his own pain. Reinhardt motioned, and the pair of them dragged Simo into a doorway, Reinhardt gritting his teeth against the pain in his wrist and his knee. Neven hauled on the handle, and the door creaked open onto a dark hallway. They pulled Simo inside as the boy pushed the door shut. Across the street, Benfeld made to jump down from the car, but Reinhardt waved him back.

and Reinhardt shared a flat gaze, and each knew the turmoil that screamed behind their eyes.

“You cannot stay here,” she said.

“I'm not coming back, Suzana.” She blinked, and her eyes glistened, suddenly. “But there's a circle I have to close. You can still help me. Both of you,” he said, taking in Simo where the big Partisan blinked up at him from the floor.

“Tell me.”

So he drew her close, and told her. She stiffened, then nodded as he spoke, and she relaxed into his arms. He pulled back, looking into her eyes, pushing himself down into them.

“You understand?”

“Yes. I think . . . yes, it can work.”

“It must.” He handed her the MP 40, then knelt to take Simo's hand. “Luck to you, Simo.”

“And you, Captain Reinhardt.”

Neven tapped him on the shoulder. The little boy was solemn, his eyes wide. Reinhardt extended his hand, and Neven took it, then tentatively wrapped thin arms around Reinhardt's neck. Reinhardt froze, then closed his own arms around the fragile span of Neven's shoulders.

walked him to the door. He brushed his fingers down her cheek. She blinked hard, and he opened the door, glancing up and down the street.

“Wait,”
said, slipping past him, craning her head up at the windows. She called something, her eyes wide, then called again. A voice came back at her. “You can go,” she said, breathlessly. A last exchange of eyes, and he slipped out, running over to the
panzerfunkwagen
.