(Author's note: This story heavily references my earlier stories, "Choices", "Sofia", and "Talismans". It would be helpful to read those first.)

Angels and Nazis

Chapter 1

Chief was sure that the shadowy face in front of him was someone he knew, someone he was suppose to be wary of. The features were half hidden, distorted and blurry. The name floated at the edge of his memory, slithering out of reach each time his mind tried to grasp it. The voice echoed from some distant dark depth, garbled and unrecognizable, on fetid breath that reeked of hate and decay. The shadow gripped his switchblade tightly, pressing it against his side, beneath his ribs, pricking his bare skin. Chief was paralyzed, unable even to twitch a muscle. But it didn't bother him. It seemed absurdly more important to identify his attacker than to defend himself.

Slowly, smoothly, the razor-keen blade slid through his skin, penetrating muscle and tissue. He puzzled at the lack of pain. He could feel every inch of the slick steel pushing up beneath his ribs, but it only felt cold and alien. Then his ghostly attacker pushed harder, twisting, ripping open something vital. Wet, sticky warmth gushed down his side. Panic enveloped him in a tidal wave. He tried to draw a breath, gasped, and choked on his own blood...

...and he bolted upright, slamming back into the wooden wall behind him, his blade clenched in his right hand, where it belonged. The spectral form of his assailant dissolved like mist on the wind. Out of the pre-dawn dimness, the vague outlines of the room's sparse furniture took shape. He swiped his shirt sleeve across his mouth, wiping away clammy sweat, and took deep breaths to slow his thudding heart.

"Hey, Chiefy." Goniff's familiar accent emerged from the gloom of the far corner. "Ya a'right, mate?"

He took a couple more breaths before finding his voice. "Yeah. Fine."

Cot springs squeaked as Goniff sat up. "Coor, those ruddy nightmares'll get ya every time."

Chief rubbed at the tender spot beneath his ribs, and the fleeting chill of cold steel shuddered through him. He reached down and ran his hand over the thin mattress, half expecting to find a pool of blood. He found only the sharp spike of a broken spring poking up through the thread-bare ticking.

At the click of the door latch, Chief startled. Garrison stepped in, closing the door quietly behind him. He struck a match and lit the oil lamp on the low table, bringing the tiny attic room into sharp focus. "Let's get started. We need to make Tours by sunset. Actor and Casino should already be there."

Chief squinted in the sudden stark glare of the lamp.

"Chief?"

He realized he was still pressed back hard against the rough wall, his knuckles white on the handle of his knife. He mentally shook off the lingering web of nightmare and folded the blade. "Yeah, I heard ya. Tours by sunset."

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They'd made good time hiking the back roads, even though the day was hot and sticky. They'd stopped a couple of times in the shade by the side of the road, to catch their breath and cool off, but there was still enough time to stop at the Prideaux farm, and still make Tours before dark.

Garrison slowed to let Goniff catch up to him. "The turn off is just around the next bend," he assured the pickpocket.

Goniff fell into step next to him, wiping his face with his shirt tail. "So this Prideaux bloke is the local Maquis big wig, is he?"

"He operates a safe house. The Resistance smuggles downed flyers and escaped prisoners through here, on their way to the coast. We need to give him the new codes."

"A tricky business, in'it, standin' up to the Nazis."

"Tricky. And deadly." Garrison wondered if it was something he could do day after day, month after month, under unbearable hardships, never getting a chance to take a break, eat a good meal, read a book. As much as he hated the hours spent at his desk back at the mansion, and the never-ending stream of paper work, he knew that to most fighting this war, those hours of not having to watch your back or fear for your life would be a luxury.

He set aside that troubling thought and turned to another. He'd sensed an uneasy tension in Chief this morning, so he'd given him a focus and some solitude, sending him to scout the road ahead. Now he turned to Goniff, who was often a good source for the inner workings of the team. "Does Chief seem a little on edge to you today?"

"Ya mean more than our usual edgy Chiefy?" Goniff kicked at a rock as he walked, sending it skidding into the roadside weeds. "Yeah, he 'ad one a 'is nightmares last night. Ya know how they can throw a spanner into yer whole day sometimes."

He did know. All too well.

As they rounded the curve in the road, he could see Chief up ahead, at the turnoff to the Prideaux place. He'd stepped off the road, into the shade of an old elm, and leaned against the trunk, looking like he was waiting for a lift into town.

Chief pushed away from the tree as they approached, and scuffed the toe of his boot at tire tracks in the dirt lane. "They had company. A car, two motorcycles. German."

Garrison stooped for a closer look, and pinched up some of the dirt, as if feeling it between his fingers would help.

"Came in from the west, turned back that way when they left," Chief added.

Goniff was skeptical. "You can tell all that from a few ruts in the dirt?"

Garrison stood, brushing the dust from his hands. "From the pattern, how deep they are, how they curve," he explained. Then he looked back at Chief. "How long ago?"

"Yesterday, I reckon."

Garrison was impressed. That had been his guess, too. Chief may have learned some game tracking skills as a kid on the reservation, but the rest he'd picked up recently and quickly, just from observing and assessing.

Garrison pulled his pistol from his waist band under his shirt, and although he knew he didn't have to warn them, he had to say it anyway. "Look sharp. We don't know what happened here."

They moved quietly and slowly through the neglected and overgrown apple orchard that bordered the dirt track, fragrant with last year's crop rotting on the ground. A quarter mile along, they approached the farm yard, partially visible through the apple trees and undergrowth. Away from the small, neat house, close to the tree line, someone had started digging a hole. A large one, and deep. A mound of dirt, still dark and damp, was piled next to it, and a rusted shovel lay discarded on the ground. In the middle of the yard, two smaller mounds were carefully covered with patchwork quilts, pieces of firewood anchoring down the edges and corners.

Garrison moved in behind a tree, barely breathing. The others followed his lead, Chief behind a tree to his right, Goniff to his left behind the wood pile. Nothing stirred but buzzing insects. Garrison felt a bead of sweat crawl down between his shoulder blades. Even the breeze had died in the heat of the early afternoon.

He couldn't see any immediate threat, so he called out the contact phrase. "Claude, is there a storm coming?"

The shot made him flinch. The bullet kicked up dirt two feet to his left.

Goniff immediately raised his pistol, trained on the farm house.

"No! Don't shoot," Garrison hissed.

Goniff gave him a quizzical look, but lowered his weapon.

He tried again. "Claude? We're here to help."

Silence hung in the air like the thick, fragrant heat.

"Claude..?"

"Do not come any closer." The girl's voice tried to sound commanding although it cracked slightly. "I will shoot you," she added as an afterthought.

She had to be the Prideaux's eighteen year old daughter. And those two quilt-covered mounds were probably her parents. "Elise? I'm Craig Garrison. Remember me? I was here about a year and a half ago, meeting with your father and his friends."

Again the silence fell. Bees hummed among the decaying apples, and a crow called somewhere in the distance.

"She ain't alone, Warden," Chief whispered.

"How many?"

"Just one, I judge."

Garrison called again, "Elise, tell me what happened."

This time a man's voice answered, an American. "Lieutenant Garrison? Is Rainy with you?"

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The open window where Chief sat did little to cool off the front room of the farmhouse. The day's walk and then the hard work of digging the graves had worn the sharp edges off of the nightmare, but a thin wisp of uneasiness still persisted, like an unpleasant smell he couldn't quite identify, as if the faceless specter was just out of sight.

With the point of his blade, he scratched at the trickle of sweat that ran down the side of his face, and watched the girl out in the yard, kneeling next to the fresh graves of her parents. Did she really believe they were now together and happy in some paradise in the sky, still watching out for her? He supposed it made her feel safer, gave her strength and hope. Whatever worked.

"When the tunnel collapsed, my leg got pinned." Marty Gomez limped over to the dining table to join Garrison and Goniff, and eased himself into a chair. "I really don't remember how I got out of there. Pete and some of the others said they carried me. I woke up at a farm near Lunéville. The others left me there since I couldn't walk. Hey, Rainy, did you get my medicine pouch? Pete said he'd try to get it to the Red Cross."

Chief turned from the window and let the curtain drop. "Yeah, I got it."

"I just thought that if I didn't make it, that you could..." Marty's eyes held his briefly, but he didn't complete the thought, and turned back to Garrison. "Anyway, once I could get around, the Resistance got me this far. I've been here a few weeks, trying to help out, ya know..." He paused and took a breath. "Thanks for finishing the digging. It woulda taken Elise and me days."

Garrison finished off the water in the glass in front of him. "What happened?"

"I wish I could tell ya. Claude came back from town yesterday afternoon all in a panic, goin' on about the Gestapo and a leak or somethin', and he hustled me and Elise into the root cellar. Then we heard the shooting." Marty took a gulp of his own water and stared down at his hands, his voice going quiet. "They executed them. Just shot them in cold blood."

When the door swung open, they all turned as Elise came inside. Her bare knees were smudged with mud, and her eyes were rimmed in red, but she brushed the loose strands of hair out of her face, straightened her shoulders, and managed a smile. "Lieutenant, you will stay the night, yes?"

"We really can't..."

"I will not hear of it. It is still several hour's walk to Tours, and it will be dark soon. You will eat with us."

Again, Garrison opened his mouth to protest, but Elise cut him off, bustling to the stove to begin dinner. "I insist. The garden is good this year, and Marty shot a rabbit yesterday."

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Though not plentiful, the meal was delicious, the most substantial they'd had since landing in France a week ago. They'd eaten slowly, savoring the herb-rich stew and fresh bread, and talked about everything but the war. As they lingered over glasses of cold hard cider, Elise recounted childhood stories of raising chickens and goats, and stories about her parents. The Warden had said she was eighteen, but to Chief she seemed much older. She was thin and tall, her long, dark hair pulled back into a messy bun at the back of her neck. Although she'd just buried her brutally murdered mother and father, she could still talk about them with humor and affection. She must really believe they're in a better place than that hole in the ground out in the yard.

Finally, Elise pushed her plate away, and picking up the pitcher of cider, she refilled everyone's glass. "There is something happening in Tours, Lieutenant."

Garrison sat a little straighter. "Like what?"

"Many people are being arrested. Or just disappearing. Some I know are involved in resistance activities, and perhaps they got careless. But many are innocent, just trying to survive, and they are taken away by the Boche for no reason."

"And your parents were caught up in that?"

"They must've been." Elise twisted her napkin in her hands, the first sign of anger Chief had seen from her. Her voice rose a notch. "Papa was a good collaborateur. He played the part very well. They had no reason to suspect him of anything."

"You think there's a traitor in the Resistance?"

Marty took one of Elise's hands in his and squeezed gently. "That's the only thing we can think of, Lieutenant. Someone squealed on him. But we have no idea who. I need to get Elise away from here. It's not safe for her anymore."

"It's not safe for either of you," Garrison added. "We're meeting the rest of my team in Tours, then heading back to the coast. Come with us..."

"No." Elise pulled her hand from Marty's and stood abruptly. "I am not leaving. I will continue what Papa started."

Chief fully expected the Warden to argue with her, explain to her that the middle of the war in France was no place for a girl, and she'd be safe and cared for in England. Instead Garrison sat back in his chair and rubbed the back of his neck. Finally, he said, "Alright, here's what you need to do. There's a partisan camp in the hills south of here. They're having some success hitting rail lines and supply dumps, and they can always use help. We'll take you there, and I'll introduce you." Garrison pinned Marty with a hard glare. "It'll be a hike. Think you can make it?"

Marty grinned up at Elise, but he answered Garrison. "We'll make it, Lieutenant."

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Something woke him. A small critter scurrying in a corner, or a twig hitting the roof. It was still pitch black, but from his pallet of worn blankets on the floor under the window, Chief could just make out Garrison's white shirt across the room, where the Lieutenant slept on his own blanket. The Warden had taken the first watch, so Goniff must be outside now, struggling to stay awake. He'd had more than his share of the cider.

Making sure his knife was in place, and shoving his pistol into his belt, Chief rose silently and slipped out the door. A half moon moved from behind a cloud, revealing Goniff sitting in an old rocking chair at the far end of the porch. He sat up and rocked forward at the sound of the door.

"My turn," Chief told him.

"Really? Already?" The rocker squeaked as Goniff rose and stretched. "If you say so, mate. I'm knackered, so I ain't gonna argue with you."

When the door closed behind Goniff, Chief stepped off the porch and headed for the wood pile at the edge of the yard. It was just high enough for him to sit comfortably with a knee pulled up in front of him, leaning against the tree that supported one end of the stack. He snapped out the knife and picked up a chunk of tree branch to whittle on as he waited and watched.

From here he had a good view of the whole yard and of the dirt lane leading back to the road. One of the crude wooden crosses that Marty had nailed together was tilting to the left in the still soft and settling dirt of the graves. In the dimness of the moon shadows, it gave the yard the look of a haunted cemetery. He used to wonder at his Navajo grandfather's fear of the dead. Now it just seemed silly. Now he knew death. The two people in those graves were just rotting corpses, no matter how hard the girl prayed.

Chief judged that several hours had passed as he sat quietly, alert to the darkness, vigilant for unnatural sounds. All of the nightlife had finished their foraging, leaving that eerie silence that always closed in before the sky began to brighten. He'd carved the chunk of wood into a thin spike as he'd watched the moon shadows of the crosses shift across the graves. It was probably later than he'd thought, and the Warden would want to get on the road soon.

He glanced up as the door squeaked open and a pale wedge of light sliced across the porch. Marty closed the door behind him and crossed the yard, his hands in his pockets. His limp was pronounced, but it didn't seem to bother him.

Marty stiffly eased himself onto the tree stump that served as a chopping block. "Elise is fixing some breakfast. The Lieutenant wants to get started before it gets too hot."

"That's the Warden." Chief spit out the splinter of wood he'd been chewing. "Can't waste any daylight."

"The nuns were right."

Chief frowned at him.

Marty avoided his eyes, looking down at the ground. "Goniff told me. You're both convicts."

"What of it?""

"Nothing," Marty shrugged. "I was just wondering...what'd you do to end up in prison?"

"You name it..."

"Rainy, you're not a killer."

"Tell that to the Krauts."

"That's different."

Chief almost laughed. "Yeah, maybe..."

In the silence, small sounds came from the house...pans rattling, Goniff laughing. Normal, everyday sounds of early morning. In the woods, the birds began their morning chorus. Finally, Marty asked, "Did you bring my medicine pouch with you?"

"Why the hell would I do that? I thought you were dead."

"I dunno. I thought maybe... It's okay. I started a new one." From under his shirt, Marty pulled a small bag hanging from the chain that once had held his dog tags. "I made it from a scrap of parachute silk."

"Why? Ain't like the old one did ya any good."

"It makes me feel safe. Protected, ya know? Like something greater than me is in control."

"Whatever's in control's doin' a hell of a job."

Marty ignored his cynicism and reverently rubbed the small pouch between his fingers. "You had a medicine pouch once. You used to believe in its power."

"We were kids, Chishi. It was a game." Chief tossed the whittled stick into the orchard. "That sack of junk ain't gonna keep you safe any more than her fancy words are gonna bring back her parents."

"Ya gotta believe in somethin'..."

"I believe in this." He snapped the blade open with a sharp click. "And that Army officer in there, and that slippery little Brit. And those two guys waitin' for us in Tours. That's what keeps me alive."

Marty stood, about to say something else, but Garrison's voice from the porch cut him off. "Let's get moving, guys. The sun'll be up soon."

Chief rose, shoved the blade back into its sheath, and pushed past Marty, heading for the house.

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There was an advantage to working with Actor. Even in a city as devastated as Tours, the conman was always able to find the most comfortable accommodations and the best food. And the good wine. As long as Casino kept his mouth shut within ear shot of strangers, letting Actor speak his perfect French for both of them, he wasn't above enjoying all the amenities that Actor could provide.

Accommodations this time were supplied by Madame Jacquard, the proprietress of Actor's favorite bordello in the region. Casino was looking forward to another night in the large, cloud-soft bed in the room at the top of the grand staircase, accompanied by sweet, warm little Josette. He wasn't as exhausted as he had been last night, so he was anticipating being able to give her all the attention she deserved.

Tonight's dinner had even included roast beef, a rare luxury these days. Madame Jacquard had assured them that it was a gift from an appreciative Wehrmacht General, and she had no qualms about sharing it with them - just one of her quiet little acts of defiance. She and two of her girls had just disappeared through the kitchen door with the dirty dishes, leaving him and Actor alone at the ornately carved mahogany dining table.

Casino pushed his chair back and sighed contentedly, taking a sip from the delicate crystal goblet. Was this the third bottle of Bordeaux or the fourth? "I wonder where Garrison and the guys have been spendin' their nights."

Actor lit a match and held it to the bowl of his pipe, drawing flame through the fragrant tobacco. "They should have left Montrichard yesterday. The plan was for them to be here by this evening."

"Yeah, but I bet they ain't had feather beds and dames." Casino lit his own cigarette and inhaled deeply, then let the smoke out slowly. "The Warden probably had those two jokers sleepin' on the ground and eatin' hardtack."

Actor merely raised an eyebrow and opened his newspaper, giving it a noisy shake, a sure sign that he was in no mood for small talk.

Draining the last of the wine from his glass, Casino examined the elegantly appointed dining room, with its highly polished sideboard, thick brocade curtains, and matching flocked wallpaper. "I wonder if they got any brandy stashed somewhere."

"Don't you think you've had enough for one night? We still have work to attend to in the morning."

"Nah, I'm good. It's just wine." Rather than get up from the comfortable chair and search for something else, Casino picked up the bottle and emptied the rest of the rich red liquid into his glass. "Really good wine."

"As if you would know."

"Hey, I've had enough of the rot gut stuff to know the difference."

Actor huffed dismissively from behind his paper and kept reading. But the wine was glowing warm in Casino's stomach and relaxing tense muscles. He knocked his cigarette ash carefully into the silver ashtray. "Madame Jacquard does okay for herself here. Probably does a good trade with the Nazis, right? I bet she knows a lot of secrets."

It was like talking to a wall, but he continued anyway. "And the girls, too, if they speak German. Josette does. And pretty good English, too. I'm tryin' to teach her some of the bedroom Italiano that..." Damn, there was a thought that could kill a good buzz.

Sofia had hardly crossed his mind in weeks. Sofia, with the dark, sparking eyes, warm, silky skin, and sweet little accent. He looked over at Actor, still hidden behind his newspaper. Maybe this was a good time to get some answers. He blurted it out before he could change his mind. "Did you sleep with her?"

The paper dropped. "Who? Josette?"

"No, stupid, Sofia. On that mission to Brussels. Did you sleep with her?"

Actor's eyes narrowed as he relit his pipe and took a couple of puffs. Finally, he looked Casino in the eye. "It was a mission. We worked together as professional colleagues."

"Yeah, right..."

"Believe what you wish, Casino." Actor folded his paper and rose from his chair. "I am going to retire for the evening. I suggest you do the same."

Casino watched Actor's broad back as he strode from the dining room through the wide archway and disappeared up the staircase. Was that a yes or a no? He knew he'd never get a straight answer from the conman. Shit, it wasn't important anymore anyway. There was a reason he hadn't thought of Sofia in weeks. He'd moved on just like she had. He crushed out his cigarette, gulped down the remainder of his wine, and followed Actor up the stairs, replacing thoughts of Sofia with visions of that warm, soft bed and warm, yielding Josette. When the Warden and the guys got here, they could get their own dames.

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