James Benn - The Rest Is Silence

“Crawford!” I yelled. “Come out with your hands up. You can’t get away, the area is surrounded.” I hoped I sounded more confident than I felt. What I wanted most was a reply, so I could be sure of his location.

Silence.

I stood and fired one shot, then sprinted away from Kaz, making for the cover of a cottage about twenty yards away. The one shot was to make Crawford flinch and give me a few seconds’ head start. Darkness was fading into light, and I knew I’d make a decent target if I didn’t hustle. I pumped my legs as fast as I could, feeling the sticky blood in my boot with each stride, not to mention the pain of accumulated injuries. I felt my knee buckle and hoped I’d be fast enough.

Crawford fired again, the muzzle flash a white-hot blast in my peripheral vision. Bullets hit the cottage wall in front of me, and as I thought about what a lousy shot Crawford was, I caught a root with the toe of my boot and went sprawling, rolling as best I could to gain the cover of the cottage wall.

I made it, but my.45 didn’t. I’d dropped it when I fell, about seven or eight feet from the corner of the house where I lay gasping. I crawled on my elbows, hoping I could reach it before Crawford realized where I was. A shot inches from my head told me it wasn’t in the cards. He’d gotten smarter, changing the selector to single shot. Better aim and more control. I slithered back, drawing the.38 Police Special from my shoulder holster. Not as much stopping power as the.45, but that hardly mattered if I couldn’t see Crawford well enough to shoot him.

If I couldn’t plug him, then the next best thing was to give Kaz a chance. Which meant making myself a target again, and trusting Kaz had found a place to hide and fire from. I gripped the revolver tightly and rounded the cottage, running broken-field style, aiming for a point directly opposite where I guessed Kaz to be.

Crawford squeezed off several rounds, slowly, taking his time. The bullets thrummed through the air, some of them smacking into stout trees behind me. Was Crawford playing with me? Missing on purpose? However he’d acquired the Thompson, my guess was he wasn’t familiar with it, not yet anyway. But as a slug whizzed closer to my head, I had to admit he was getting the hang of the thing.

I took cover behind a well, the thick, cold stone reassuring. I waited, hoping to spot Crawford in the open, but he was too clever for that. After several minutes of cat and mouse he sent a couple of shots ricocheting off the stones, to let me know he had me in his sights. I looked to the east, where the horizon showed a reddish hue. I glanced at my watch. Just after four o’clock. Time to be getting the hell out of here.

“Crawford!” I yelled. “This place is going to be shelled any minute. We need to clear out.”

“Go to hell, Yank!” Crawford hollered back. At least I had him talking instead of shooting.

“It’s true,” I said. “Naval bombardment followed by fighter-bombers. There won’t be anything left of Dunstone, or anyone in it.”

“Your lot’s made sure of that already,” Crawford said. He sounded closer. The well was excellent cover, but it wouldn’t matter if he snuck up on me while I was hunkered down. I eased myself up, pistol at the ready, and looked out from the stonework in time to see Crawford hide behind a thick tree about twenty yards out. He knew how to move quietly, a smuggler’s advantage.

The stone wall Kaz had used for cover ended on the other side of the road. A thicket of shrubs abutted it, and that’s where I hoped Kaz was hiding. If I could get Crawford to turn a bit, Kaz would have him in his sights. Then it was simply a matter of getting him to drop the tommy gun so we wouldn’t have to kill him. My plan depended on that, but I was tired of being shot at, and my leg was starting to hurt like the blazes, so a.38 cross fire sounded pretty damn good.

I aimed and shot, nicking the bark of the tree right where I wanted. I could make out Crawford pulling back, a perfect target for Kaz. Now was the moment of truth. If Kaz was not where I thought he was, this was going to go badly.

“Give it up, Crawford!” I said, standing up. “We’ve got you covered from two sides.”

“Liar!”

Kaz fired, taking off his own chunk of treebark. Crawford swiveled to take aim, then realized he had exposed himself to me. He could take one of us, but the other would get the drop on him.

“I know it wasn’t your idea,” I said, taking careful steps closer, the.38 cradled in both hands. “You helped them out, was all.”

“You don’t know a damn thing,” he said. If he didn’t care about dying, he’d fire any second, I decided.

“So it was your idea? To kill Peter Wiley?”

“I’m not going to hang for that, Yank.” Good. He wanted to live. Very helpful.

“Okay, so put the Thompson down. We have a lot to talk about, but we need to get the hell out of here.” I glanced for a second toward Kaz, who moved in closer, his Webley aimed square at Crawford’s chest.

A distant noise drew closer, and I froze until I realized it wasn’t an aircraft or the beginning of the bombardment. It was our two constables in their automobile, disobeying orders and racing toward the sound of gunfire.

“I told you the place was surrounded,” I said, moving in on Crawford. “Drop the Thompson.”

Crawford stared at the police car, a bitter look of defeat on his face as headlights lit the roadway. He lowered the Thompson, looking for a way out, but he was hemmed in on three sides. He dropped the weapon and the knapsack at his feet.

“At least I’ll be taken by proper Englishmen, not a bloody American or Pole,” Crawford said, watching Constable Carraher as he stepped out from behind the wheel. His look of resignation changed to puzzlement as he gazed skyward, hearing a faint rumble in the distance, as if thunder had erupted along the horizon.

The screaming sound of naval shells arcing through the air told me it was no spring storm. I ran for Crawford, grabbing his arm before he had a chance to raise the Thompson, and knocked it from his grasp.

“Take cover!” I yelled, and dove for the ground, taking Crawford with me. The explosions came seconds later, hitting the woods on the outskirts of the village, sparing us and what was left of the village buildings. They came again and again, volleys of fire that tore trees into shreds and sent geysers of earth skyward. When the shelling stopped, we all looked at one another, stunned to be alive. Crawford was subdued, the way a lot of criminals are right after being taken. Sometimes the toughest hoodlum falls apart as soon as you get the cuffs on. Others bluster and curse, but Crawford was in the quiet category. I liked to think it was because they were ashamed, but I knew better. Exhaustion, more like.

Kaz hustled off to get our jeep while the two constables searched Crawford. I checked the back of my leg and wasn’t surprised to find blood. I was exhausted myself, but I bucked up when Carraher pulled a gold ring from Crawford’s backpack. It was Peter Wiley’s, complete with the Pemberton family coat of arms. He handed it to me, and I smiled. But it didn’t last long. The snarl of P-47 engines rose up in a heartbeat, a flight of four of the fighter-bombers coming in low, rockets slung under their wings. Seconds behind them trailed another four.

We were only a few yards from the tank in the middle of the road. Those P-47s had enough firepower to blow the whole damn village to hell and gone.

“Run!” I grabbed Crawford, again, with the two constables following, and sprinted down the road, toward our jeep, away from the tank hulk. This time, Crawford twisted loose and made a break in the opposite direction, into the village. Maybe it was the familiarity of the place, or maybe he didn’t give a damn. But I did. I needed him, so I followed. The noise from the P-47s was deafening as they fired their rockets and peeled off in two directions, rising above the carnage they’d unleashed.