This story was inspired by Kirarakim's challenge, #334, More Than Just Mavis, and is part of the Hogan's Heroes Big Bang, 2016.

When you're finished reading, go look at Belphegor's AMAZING illustrations. (the-french-belphegor . tumblr image /153913068838) and (the-french-belphegor . tumblr image /153913454298)

Now, don't freak out. It's called a non-linear plot line, and I promise it will make sense if you persevere to the end.

Nine Reasons to Live

Tiens bon.

Tiens bon.

Ne lâche pas.

Hang on.

Don't let go.

LeBeau had his eyes pressed shut.

For just a moment he wanted to pretend he wasn't where he was. He wanted to pretend there was a way for them to walk away from this mission. He wanted to pretend that he couldn't feel the tendons and ligaments in his arm tearing and his ribs weren't pressed so painfully tight that he would be screaming if he could only breathe. Newkirk had fallen silent, and if he focused hard enough, LeBeau could pretend the roaring water was only white noise: radio static, wind outside the barracks, the rolling boil of a cooking pot.

But after three years of friendship with Newkirk, LeBeau had an ingrained response to quiet, and his eyes opened of their own accord. Quiet meant trouble. It meant Newkirk was either in trouble, or planning trouble.

In this case, trouble had found him.

"Newkirk?" LeBeau grit out.

"'m here."

It wasn't raining any more, but the thick clouds overhead were still playing games with the moonlight, and LeBeau could see little more than the white of Newkirk's hand, and the glint of light off his wet hair. He was looking down, while LeBeau was trying hard not to.

"I can tell you are there." LeBeau let out a snort of laughter that bordered on hysterical, but that was probably because it hurt so much. "I am very aware of it."

That prompted Newkirk to break his silence. "You've got to l-let go, mate. I'm gonna pull your arm right-t off."

LeBeau tasted copper, and realised he had bitten through his lip. He felt sick. "It is just an arm. I have a spare."

Suddenly something slipped, and Newkirk jerked hard against his arm. Spots exploded across LeBeau's vision and the pain seemed to echo through his head so loud he didn't even hear his own scream.

When he blinked again his cheeks were wet, and he had to viciously hold back the desire to whimper. He took a couple short breaths, choking off the sound.

"LeBeau? Can you 'ear me? Louis!"

It took a couple more breaths before he could answer. "Yes?"

Newkirk's voice was so soft he could barely hear it over the water. "Y-you know I'm right. You can do a lot of things, LeBeau. But you can't pull me back up."

"Neuf."

"Nine."

LeBeau peered out the entrance one more time and then shuffled backwards on the hay strewn floor until he felt the wall behind him. Newkirk scooted to the side as LeBeau turned awkwardly in the tight space and then settled down beside his friend with his back to the shed wall.

Watching the lightning flash outside, LeBeau sighed, and then wrapped an arm around Newkirk's shoulders. Newkirk would pretend it was the cold, but both could use the assurance that the other was physically there beside him.

It was pure dumb luck that had saved them, and LeBeau refused to rely on luck to get them back to camp safely. He still wasn't sure what exactly had happened, but someone had tried to kill them, and even if Newkirk claimed he didn't know why, he did know something. Newkirk had seen something LeBeau hadn't, and it seemed to have shaken the Englishman. He'd been unusually quiet ever since.

As the storm's light penetrated their hideout for a moment, LeBeau could see a pensive look in his friend's green eyes.

"Louis? Do you ever worry who will look after your family if you don't make it through the war?"

LeBeau tightened his hold on his friend and considered the question. He had questions of his own right now, but he was fairly sure Newkirk would be unwilling to answer them. As a rule, Newkirk never spoke about his family. If he did drop the odd comment here and there, it didn't take long to realise everything he said contradicted itself. The fact that he'd brought them up on his own was worrisome.

"Sometimes, mon pote. I worry how it will upset them. But I have a very large family. I know that my aunts and my uncles, my cousins, second-cousins, my grandfather and grandmother, they will all look out for my mother and they will take care of each other."

A soft thud in the darkness indicated that Newkirk had set his head back against the wall. He was staring at the murky ceiling in the dark. It was far too close. The shed was closer in size to a hen-house.

"I'm not sure how me family would make out."

LeBeau shifted. "You told me that Mavis has a good job now, and I'm sure her friends will look after her."

"It's not just Mavis though..." Newkirk glanced at his small friend. "I told you I have nine siblings."

There was silence for a minute before LeBeau poked him in the ribs. "What! How do I not know this? I thought you were joking!"

Newkirk turned to look outside again. "I kind o' was. But it is true. Mavis is me only sister what was born to me Mum and Da, but I've got other brothers and sisters. Some o' them will get on fine without me, but I'm not so sure about the others."

"Are you telling me your parents adopted eight other children?" LeBeau couldn't help making a face. "I think I understand why your family has money problems."

Newkirk chuckled. "That would be rather daft. We could barely feed the four of us. That's not what I meant, LeBeau."

LeBeau pulled at a loose thread hanging from the hem of his pants. "Well then explain to me how you have only one sister, and nine siblings at the same time."

It was difficult to see very well, but LeBeau could tell his taller friend was glaring at him. Not very effectively, given the lighting, but frowning still. It was probably his 'I see what you're trying to do, and I'm not impressed' look.

LeBeau was immune.

"Oh fine."

"Really?"

That was unexpected.

"Shut up, LeBeau. First off, there's me older brother, Owen."

LeBeau felt like pointing out that Newkirk had always claimed to be the eldest in his family, but if he was in a rare mood to talk about his family at all, LeBeau wasn't going to interrupt.

"Mum got real sick when Mavis was born: had to go to the hospital and she never could have more kids after that. There was this couple on the next floor, and they were both Welsh. Used to come speak the old language with me Mum sometimes. So with Mavis just a baby, and I was only three and me Mum was all laid up, the lady would come down and help look after us. Owen was her son."

LeBeau nodded, "So you call him a brother because he grew up with you?"

"Sort of. A couple months later his folks both died o' the fever and he moved in with us. Worked at a mill and came home on the weekends. Owen was a great sort. Even after he found his own place he still tried to send a little bit o' money home." A grin broke over Newkirk's face. "Taught me all about the birds, he did. Used to show me off to all his dates, just 'cause I was a tiny bit o' a thing and they thought Owen was so sweet and responsible."

The Frenchman rolled his eyes. "I can see how he was part of the family."

Newkirk laughed. "Cor, he did get the Newkirk genes, even if it weren't in his blood."

"Is he in the army too?" LeBeau asked.

"Was," Newkirk said. "Owen was discharged before I was even enlisted: lost his left leg to a land mine. Made me swear up and down I would go in for the RAF so the same thing wouldn't happen to me."

LeBeau swore under his breath. "Filthy war."

It wasn't an especially hot afternoon, the breeze from the river for once making its way through the tightly packed tenements without bringing heavy smog with it. But the baby's face scrunched up whenever the sun struck her eyes, so Peter Newkirk sat carefully on the edge of the wooden milk crate, his shadow protecting her tiny features. He still didn't really understand why the last baby had left them the previous summer, but if he had any say in the matter, this one was here to stay. So far she hadn't shown much interest in his attempts to entertain her, but Peter was determined to win her over.

Right now, Mavis was sleeping, despite the rumble of traffic just feet away. The alley itself was quieter than usual, missing the constant crowd around the faucet that was the tenement's only source of water. The lack of noise was making Peter nervous. It was always noisy, even at night.

The local traffic had started clearing about half an hour back, and even at age three, Peter was an expert at picking out anger and fear on adult's faces. Something was wrong.

A year ago, he would have run and hid, but he was a big brother now, and Mavis couldn't run with him. So, Peter sat on the edge of the milk crate, his feet not quite reaching the ground below, picking nervously at the knot of tangled yarn in his small hands. Adams from up the street had told him if he managed to undo it he would teach him some tricks with a coin, and if he was any good he'd teach him something useful.

Peter's head snapped up when a horse in the street shied, its shoes smacking against the paving stones loudly. The sound was even more noticeable because the carts and cars had begun to disappear as well.

He jumped down from the box. There had to be some way he could get Mavis out. He couldn't lift her. He'd already tried, but his arms were too short. Perhaps if he pushed the box onto its side? But what if she hurt her head on the way out?

Mavis blinked up at him, woken by the sun on her face.

He had to do something!

"Peter!"

Peter burst into tears as soon as he recognised the figure at the entrance to the alley. "Owen!"

The older boy broke out of the hug desperately wrapped around his knees, and knelt down to Peter's level.

"Hey Pete. Where's your Mum?"

Peter pressed his face into Owen's vest. "Don't know. She went out this morning, lookin' for Da."

Owen said nothing for a minute, his features twisted in some emotion that Peter didn't recognise. "How about Mavis? She must be 'ungry."

That was a given, but Mavis didn't know any better. She still cried when she was hungry. "She was crying earlier. I think she's too tired now."

"Well, I'm 'ere now. Let's get you both up apples."

Peter nodded. The stuffy heat of their flat sounded so much better than it had that morning, when the smell of the McMillans' cooking had left the whole tenement reeking of fish.

Owen reached down to retrieve Mavis from her milk crate. "I'm goin' to need you to stay away from the window. Alright, Pete? There's a load of coppers round on Cable street, right now. Word is that Rigby Cooper's out o' the bucket an' pail and back in town. Things could get right nasty."

Trotting after the older boy, Peter glanced back at the milk crate. Owen had sanded down the inside for them. When he'd left his hat in the alley last week someone had stolen it.

"Just leave it there for now. I'll come back for it," Owen said, kindly. "Now come on up, me one and t'other, and I'll tell you all what I learned in school today."

"Huit."

"Eight"

"I really don't like the look of those clouds," Newkirk announced. "We never should have left the camp tonight."

LeBeau frowned, following the sound of his friend's voice as he walked, but not paying attention to the words. His focus was all on his jacket. "Tais-toi. Stop grumbling. I am trying to concentrate."

"On your buttons?" Newkirk asked incredulously, coming to a stop.

"Shut up. You know we are all out of buttons. If I don't tie off this thread it could fall of anywhere, and I will never find it." LeBeau threw his hand up in the air with a curse. "Zut! It is too dark. I can't see anything."

He looked up to see his friend grinning at him. Newkirk was purposefully standing between him and what little moonlight there was, casting shadow over his jacket. Rolling his eyes, LeBeau pushed him out of the way. "Why have we stopped?"

"We're here. This is where we supposed to meet Aladdin."

Looking around, LeBeau couldn't see anything that made this patch of woods different from all the rest. There was a slope off to their left where the ground dipped before a river cut through the woods. At this point they were still too far from the river to hear the water, but LeBeau knew it was somewhere in that direction. The wooden bridge that crossed it was a favourite of theirs because it was exclusively for foot traffic, and the Nazis didn't bother to patrol it.

Sighing, LeBeau looked back down at his loose buttons. "Well I hope this Aladdin shows up soon. I, for one, am interested in seeing what he looks like. An English spy, working undercover with the Germans for this long? What sort of man is able to keep up a cover for that long? His German must be very good."

Newkirk batted his hands away from his sweater. "Stop it, LeBeau. Just pull the ruddy things off. It's too dark to fix it because the clouds are too thick, which is what I was telling you just a minute ago."

He had said that, hadn't he? LeBeau glanced up. The trees were fairly dense, but what he could see of the sky was brewing with thick dark clouds. Now he could see the tree tops were thrashing back and forth above them. When had the wind picked up so high?

"I do not like the look of those clouds."

"Really?" Newkirk glared at him. "I just bloody said that."

LeBeau shrugged, hiding a smile. "What do you know about him?"

"Who? Aladdin? I never met him."

"No. I mean, yes. But—"LeBeau dropped his voice, peering into the darkness around them, "as his real self: Captain Bradshaw. What did he do before this?"

"I wouldn't know. He must o' come from somewhere, but it wasn't nowhere I ever heard of. LeBeau!" Newkirk snapped. "Leave the buttons alone!"

He slapped at the Frenchman's hand a little too hard, and incensed, LeBeau kicked him in the ankle. Newkirk wasn't expecting the kick, and he jumped back, tripping over his own foot and landing on the ground.

Crack!

The sound was abrupt, and completely unexpected.

LeBeau stared at Newkirk, stock still and confused. There was a hole in the tree where Newkirk's head had been a moment before.

He didn't recognise the sound for a gunshot until the second bullet had already fired and Newkirk had rolled over on his belly, yanking LeBeau's feet out from under him. He hit the ground hard, and barely found the wits to react when Newkirk scrambled up beside him, wrapping an arm under his chest and scooping him up into a hunched-over run.

Another shot cracked the air and LeBeau was struck by how loud his own heartbeat suddenly sounded. It was the only other thing he could hear, apart from Newkirk's heavy breathing. A burst of splintered wood rained down over them, and LeBeau ducked, pulling Newkirk down into a flurry of dried leaves. They were moving too fast to do anything but roll when they hit the ground, and LeBeau ended up with a mouthful of dirt and leaves

He coughed, and whipped his head around. Newkirk was sprawled behind him, looking back into the forest. There was a man standing where they'd been moments before, reloading his gun.

"Aladdin?" LeBeau said it more out of reflex than any expectation of an answer.

But the other man nodded. "Yes. Now get out the way. I'm trying to shoot him, not you."

"Sept."

"Seven"

Newkirk's story had petered off as a roll of thunder shook the small shed. Rain was pouring down in sheets, spattering the doorstep and thoroughly soaking the fields outside. LeBeau wished he had a pair of gumboots to make the trip back to the footbridge. Maybe they should have stayed in the forest, closer to Stalag 13. Surely the trees would have protected them to some degree.

"So… Owen?" LeBeau said, pitching his voice over the pounding of the rain.

"Mmm. Well, Owen's actually got a job now, so he's not really dependent on me. But his fiancée was killed in the Blitz last year, and he hasn't even got parents from me family's side left..."

"It is really important to him that his little brother makes it home safe."

Newkirk nodded, and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands.

LeBeau scuffed at the dirt with a finger, "What about your other siblings?"

The last complex on the end of the street had been built with a sad semblance of a garden, ringed with a high brick wall. Nothing grew there; nothing ever had, but the wall continued to protect the sterile scrap of dirt, and it offered a form of protection to one small eight-year-old as well. Peter Newkirk had discovered the year before that he could wedge his tiny fingers into the spaces between the bricks, and scale the wall. He wasn't the most agile kid in the neighbourhood, but he was one of the most determined. The wall wasn't quite tall enough to keep him out of the reach of adults, or more importantly, his father, but if he lay flat on his stomach, nobody could even see him.

Of course, he'd fallen off the wall once and broken his arm, when Rigby Cooper and his crew walked by and threw bottles at him, but he'd probably have come to a worse end if he'd been in their actual path.

Mavis sat at the base of the wall, carefully working at the piece of mending Mum had set for her. Nobody paid much attention to her, least of all their father, who'd never thought to question why she often talked to herself when she sat alone outside.

"And after King 'enry the Eight' there was Lady Jane Grey, but she got 'er 'ead lopped off, after only a week. I though she looked awful pretty in the picture, Peter, with a luverly big dress. You oughta take a butcher's at me primer. Cor, it were all shiny and white an' all." She paused a moment to find her train of thought. "After that, Bloody Mary was Queen."

Peter let his arm flop back across his eyes, cutting out the glare of the sky above him. The light seemed to slice between the leaning buildings with an extra harshness. "You missed Edward the Sixth, Mave."

"Oh." Mavis set down her needle. She rubbed at her knuckles where she'd received a rap the week before for forgetting her lesson. "You're right. I bodged it up again."

"'ey. Don't get yourself in a two an' six. We'll just keep a practicin', won't we?"

A new voice entered the conversation.

"I have no idea what you either of are saying. Is that even English?"

Peter opened his eyes with a scowl, to see Louis LeBeau sitting on the edge of the wall, arms folded across his chest, and his feet gently kicking at the crumbling brick. "It's cockney rhyming slang, innit? Do I have to translate for you?"

"Do I speak French in front of you?"

"All the time."

"That's different."

With a groan, Peter turned back to his sister. "Fine."

Some of the thick accent faded away, leaving something closer to the English LeBeau was used to hearing Newkirk speak.

"I could take you to the train station. If you were real quiet we could go in the big waiting room where they got pictures of all the kings and queens. Do you think they'd be easier to learn if you knew what every one of 'em looked like?"

Mavis grinned, tipping back her head to look up at her brother. "Really? Could we? I'd like that!"

Louis smiled along with her. "She looks like you."

Both of the Newkirk siblings had messy brown hair, the kind that wasn't quite sure if it was curly or straight, fine features, and sloping green eyes that gave off an impression of somnolence no matter how wide awake they were. Mavis' face was a little rounder, but they were otherwise a matching pair.

Peter sat up, dusting off his hands. "There something wrong with that?"

"No. Of course not." Louis eyed him curiously. "You're not that much bigger than I am, now."

"Well, how old are you?"

"Here?" Louis shrugged. "The same age as you, I guess. Eight? I thought you'd be taller than you are."

The other boy ducked his head, brows pressed together. "I'll grow later."

"Much later?"

"Maybe," Peter grumbled.

Louis smiled even wider.

"Oi! Newkirk!"

All three of them looked over at the entrance to the lane. Two new boys stood there. One had a shock of white-blond hair on his head, a turned-up nose, and an intimidating habit of planting his feet wide apart, like some explorer, laying claim to all he could see. He was clearly in charge of the smaller child behind him.

"What do you want, 'arry?" Peter called out.

John Harold Kent was unfortunate enough to share both first and last name with three other boys in Peter's school. Consequently, he won the right to be known as Harry over two students in their grade, and eight in the school as a whole, who were known by their surnames instead.

"You doing anything important? Adams wants to borrow you tonight."

"What for?"

"Just opening a door. You're the one who got through the little window in the headmaster's office, a couple months ago, weren't you?"

"Peter's busy," Mavis cut in.

"Wasn't talking to you, Newkirk minor."

Mavis scowled.

"I don't think I like him," Louis said.

"I didn't like him either. Not at this point."

"Why?"

Peter shrugged. "Jealous, I guess. There's one of the older boys, older than Owen, that used to live nearby. His name is Adams. All the sleight of hand I know, the lock-picking and stuff… he taught me most of it. When I was younger I used to help him with his work sometimes. Generally lifting wallets and small time stuff. But now he's graduated and workin' serious jobs and he still lets 'arry tag along. No one comes for me, not unless they need someone old enough to keep their mouth shut, and small enough to fit through a window."

He turned away from Louis, hiding his eyes. "It wouldn't make sense to you… What time?" He asked, directing the last bit to Harry.

"Around eleven. Meetin' outside the Chips shop."

Peter rolled onto his stomach, lowering himself down the wall until he could drop to the ground. "What's 'e going to pay me?"

The boy behind Harry derailed the rest of the conversation by tugging on Harry's shirtsleeves and announcing in a very loud voice that "I'm tired, 'arry! My feets is sore!"

Harry's face twisted into a look of hopeless irritation, before he turned to face the smaller boy head on. "We just got 'ere, Ricky. If you're tired, go on and sit down. Go sit by the little girl, alright?"

Rick nodded, and toddled past his brother. Mavis watched him approach with mild interest, trusting her brother to intervene if this little boy meant her any harm.

"'What are you doing?" Rick shouted at Mavis, standing a little too close to her crossed legs.

Hands on his hips, Peter looked to Harry with a cocked eyebrow.

"My little brother. He's mostly deaf on the right side, and little bit on the left. You gotta show 'im your face when you talk to 'im."

"What's deaf?" Mavis asked.

"'is ears is broke," Peter told her.

"Oh." Mavis held out her sewing to show the smaller boy. Then she offered him a hand, pulling him down to sit beside her.

Harry sauntered closer, skirting a pile of broken glass, checking how near he could get to Peter. The older Newkirk confused him. Peter was an odd combination of mischievous and cautious, always joking and collecting friends at school, and then breaking the nose of the first boy that got too close without his permission.

Harry looked up at the wall, his fine blond eyebrows pinched together. Louis stuck his tongue out, even though he knew he wouldn't get a reaction.

"Are you 'iding from something?"

Peter and Mavis spoke at the same time.

"Our Da' is back from work."

"I'm not hiding," Peter snapped indignantly, and then flushed when he realised what Mavis had said. "I'll do the job, alright? You can go tell Adams, now."

Harry eyed him critically.

"Pierre?"

"What?"

"How did you get down? I'm stuck."

Peter glanced over his shoulder, still angry. "You can't go down front-wise. You gotta turn around first, Louis."

"Oh."

"Mavis and I is busy now. I'll see you at eleven," Peter said, the edge of his quick temper starting to cut through his speech.

Harry nodded slowly. "Fine. I'll tell 'im. See you later, Newkirk."

Louis dropped down beside his friend. He looked at the palms of his hands. They were covered in a sticky black substance. "Beurk. What is that?"

"Hmm?" Peter was busy watching Harry take his little brother and leave. "I dunno. It comes from the air. Coats everything whenever the smog runs through."

Face scrunched up in disgust, Louis wiped his hands on the back of Peter's shirt, leaning around him to see the other two boys go.

"I still don't see why you call him your brother."

Newkirk blinked, refocussing on shed and the pounding rain outside.

"You'll see. I'll tell you what happened the next day."

Peter didn't want to knock on Harry's door tonight. If he went up the inside stairs anyone might see him. They wouldn't care, but they might talk, and this was going to be humiliating enough already.

Nature and neglect had given him another way up to the second floor flat. Rot and a serious infestation of all kinds of vermin had eaten away many of the buildings in the area. They were patched with a mixture of materials, and in this case, braced against the opposite tenement with a tangle of scrap wood, stolen railway ties, and a broken carriage. The outside wall was still bulging, but for now, the building continued to stand and provide shelter.

Peter had to haul himself up onto a rubbish bin before he could reach lowest beam of the slap-dash scaffolding that twisted past Harry's flat.

"Give me a hand up?"

Peter lay flat on his stomach to pull Louis up after him, groaning with the effort. "Golly but you're short."

For once, the comment came out like an actual insult, but Louis guessed Peter's mood had little to do with him. He decided to let it slide. Scrambling to his feet, Louis brushed at his knees. The soot only ground itself further into his pants.

Peter passed him by, sure-footed as he climbed the scaffolding, even in the darkness. Louis could barely see anything. Very little natural light made its way in between the tightly packed buildings, and the smog filtered out any effects from the street lights along the main road. "Be quiet 'ere. The cross pieces make an awful racket if you step on 'em wrong."

It wasn't as easy as he made it sound, and Peter was already tapping on a second-floor window when Louis came to kneel beside him.

The window sash slid up.

"Peter. Come for your cut already?" Harry's voice dropped when he saw the state of Peter's face, one eye already fully swollen shut. "Ruddy 'ell. Can you even see anythin'?"

Louis clenched his hands into fists as Peter flushed to his roots.

"Shut up. Just gimme me share o' it."

Harry nodded, and ducked his head back inside. He came back seconds later with a couple coins. Peter reached for them, but the other boy held them back.

"Is your sister okay?"

Peter said nothing, but it was clear he was close to punching Harry for implying he might leave Mavis anywhere she was in danger of being hurt.

"My mistake," Harry said, picking up on the unspoken answer. "What about you? Are you headed back 'ome tonight?"

"No."

"Where you gonna stay?"

Peter shrugged.

"Do you 'ave someplace?" Harry pressed.

"What's it to you?" Peter growled, grabbing at Harry's wrist.

"Stay with us tonight."

The suggestion surprised Peter enough that he let go of the window-frame he'd been leaning on with one hand, and almost fell through the window. Harry reached out to help him, but Peter jerked back with a hiss.

Reasoning that he couldn't make the situation worse, Louis pressed a reassuring hand to his friend's back as Peter retreated further away onto the scaffolding.

"I'm fine. Just 'and over the bread, 'arry."

"Nope. Not till you come on in, Peter. My Grandmum's deaf as a doorknob, and she sleeps in the other room. She won't even notice, and Ricky certainly won't care if you share our bed."

Peter looked over his shoulder, peering in the direction of the main road. The fog was even thicker than before.

"Is this what a London Pea Soup looks like?" Louis whispered. The damp was pervasive; it felt like the moisture was sitting in his bones.

Peter nodded absently.

"Listen." Harry started playing with the coins, running them over his fingers like Louis had often see Peter do when he was nervous. "You want to just stay one night? That's fine. I'll get an afghan and you can sleep under the bed if you wants. Then me Grandmum won't even see you if she comes in. The window doesn't lock. You can leave anytime."

It took a bit more convincing before Peter crawled in the window after Harry.

"Will you come here often?" Louis asked, as Harry pulled out blanket from a corner of the tiny room.

Peter nodded. "In another couple years their Grandmother's gout gets even worse, and they'll move into a room on the bottom floor of our place. You remember that blue scarf I got in a package, about a year back?"

"Yes. The really lumpy one?"

"It were 'arry's Grandmum what made it for me."

They had definitely made the right choice hiding in the barn. They'd passed flooded fields, a flattened hen-house, and several trees, broken off and trailing in the roaring river. LeBeau hadn't even realised it was possible to fit that much water in a river that size. It was beating against the pillars of the footbridge so hard the entire structure was shivering under the constant beating.

They stood side by side, eyeing the crossing.

"Do you think it's safe?" Newkirk asked.

LeBeau frowned. "I don't know. But how else we will get back across the water?"

Newkirk shifted, cocking his head to one side as stared at it unhappily. "Guess we don't have much of a choice."

"No."

LeBeau took a couple cautious steps onto the wooden bridge, his hands gripping the railings tightly. It was just wide enough for two men to walk side by side if they didn't mind their shoulders touching. Newkirk followed him, stretching so he had one hand on each side.

"LeBeau, wait a minute, mate. I should walk in front."

Looking over his shoulder, LeBeau's face was incredulous. "What for?"

"Because… just– What if the shooter's waiting for us? What if he sees you?"

"Since when are you invisible? He would see you too!"

Newkirk pawed at his shoulder, turning him around. "But if you're in front you might get shot."

"And you wouldn't?" LeBeau's dark brows drew together in anger.

"I just – wait—"

"Ridicule! Déjà que tu ne me racontes pas toute l'histoire, je ne vais pas en plus jouer les paranoïaques pour te faire plaisir –"

"LeBeau! Stop!" Newkirk shouted over him, losing his temper nearly as fast.

"Tu as dit neuf et pas huit!" He tried to shake him off, but Newkirk seemed to be stuck to his jacket.

"Let go!"

Newkirk pulled, but just yanked LeBeau with him. "It's your ruddy buttons. The threads are tangled in the zip of my coat cuffs."

LeBeau swore. "I told you they were going to be a problem. Do you have your knife with you?"

"'Course."

The bridge shuddered under their feet, and LeBeau grabbed for the railing, while Newkirk clutched at his shirtfront.

"What the—?"

"Run!" LeBeau took two steps for the other end of the bridge, both hands on the railing, trusting Newkirk to follow, when a deafening crunch split the air, and the whole thing pitched violently to the side.