The Darkest Hour(22)

Sabine.

I push myself up, and a shooting pain throbs at my left wrist. I can tell that it’s sprained, but tending to it will have to wait because I spot Sabine not far ahead, lying curled on the ground. We’re both alive, at least, but we’re not alone. Schuster has followed us.

That lunatic must’ve jumped from the train, too, judging by the way he’s limping. He doesn’t seem too bothered by his leg, though, because I can see the murder written in his eyes even from where I’m standing. With his hands outstretched, he grabs Sabine by the neck and starts choking her.

I ignore the agony in my wrist and stagger toward them, watching helplessly as Sabine tries to fight him off. She begins to turn purple, and I clench my fists because they’re the only weapon I’ve left—we had to leave all our pistols and knives behind on the train. But then I remember that I’m not as defenseless as I’d thought.

“Schuster!” I scream. I’m nearly there. “It’s me that you want!”

His face jerks up and a scowl spreads over it. Underneath him, Sabine doesn’t move, and I don’t know if she’s unconscious—or worse. While Schuster drops her and drags himself toward me, I kick off both shoes and twist off one heel. When he lunges at me, I’m ready. I jump backward and swipe at him with the hidden blade, but he’s just as quick, and my knife hisses through air.

He comes at me again, and this time I don’t have the room to spin away. We fall to the ground. Stars hover in my eyes, but I blink them away because he’s trying to rip the knife from my fingers. Wriggling my knee free, I heave it into Schuster’s belly. While he’s stunned from the blow, I stab the blade between his ribs, turning his grunt into a scream. I twist the knife deeper, causing as much damage as I can, because that’s what I was taught.

Schuster rolls off me, blood pouring from his wound. There’s so much that it pools around him, but I haven’t dealt the killing blow yet. He could survive like this, at least for an hour, enough time for help to arrive. By then, he could tell the Nazis what direction Sabine and I have fled in and give them an exact description of what we look like.

I hold the knife tight. He has to be finished off.

“What are you waiting for?”

I whirl around, the knife hot in my hands, to find Sabine heaving herself toward me. She holds one arm tight against her side, but at least she’s upright and breathing.

“You’re—”

“Alive. Yes,” she says. She jerks her chin at Schuster, who’s moaning and clutching his side, trying to keep the blood from leaking out of him. “Be done with it.”

I kneel next to Schuster with my heart pumping fast. I can draw the blade across his neck or thrust it into his heart. A quick slash or twist and he’ll be gone. He’s already halfway there. I raise the weapon, but my palms begin to sweat, just like what happened with Travert.

“Give me the knife,” Sabine says.

I jerk my hand away. This is my job, not hers. I wipe the sweat off my hands and position myself above Schuster. I couldn’t ask for an easier target. He has lost too much blood to give me any fight. I locate the softest spot on his neck.

Quickly now, Lucie.

“We’re running out of time,” she huffs.

I thrust the blade in before she can take it from me. Schuster splutters out blood and nausea climbs through my stomach, but I harden myself against the animal sounds that he makes. If I don’t, I might lose the rest of my breakfast.

Finally Schuster stops breathing, and Sabine nudges me aside to thrust her fingers at his jugular.

“He’s dead.” She says this without feeling and cleans her hand on the grass, leaving a smear of blood on the thick green blades. “Take the knife. We can put it to good use.”

I nod but make no move to yank out the blade. I blink at my hands. My traitorous hands. Schuster was going to kill us both, and yet I hesitated. Again.

Sabine frowns, then sighs. “It’ll get easier. The killing.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” I shoot back. I don’t want her pity.

“I wasn’t mocking you. Do you think that my first mission was easy? It wasn’t until my fourth that I didn’t want to vomit right afterward.”

Slowly, I study her. Sabine, getting a case of the nerves before a hit? I wonder if she’s saying that for my benefit, but she has never been one to spare my feelings. “You could’ve told me that before my first mission.” Who knows? It could’ve helped.

“I did try,” she quips. Before I can call her a liar, she starts snapping orders at me. “Help me with my shoulder before the Germans send reinforcements.”

“Is it broken?”

“Dislocated. I assume you were trained for this sort of injury?”

“Of course.” My OSS instructors taught me first aid and beyond: cleaning wounds and sewing stitches and setting bones, because spies in the field don’t often have hospitals at their disposal. It has been months since I’ve used my skills, but I don’t tell that to Sabine. Instead I fetch her a stick to bite down on and tell her to shut her eyes.

“I’ll keep them open, thank you,” she replies.

“Suit yourself. Ready? On the count of three. One … two …” With one rapid motion, I realign the joint.

Sabine utters a filthy curse that would make an old French sailor blush. “You told me on the count of three!”