Jeremy Robinson - SecondWorld

The first name was his.

The second, Adler’s.

And the third belonged to a man named Milos “Wayne” Vesely. Except for the “Wayne,” which appeared to be a nickname, the name sounded European. It was the only other name not yet crossed off. And, hopefully, that meant he was still alive.

A shotgun blast rolled over the lake.

Adler!

Miller placed the notebook, handgun, and knife by his feet, picked up the paddle, and stabbed it into the water. He paddled hard for shore, hoping that Adler’s first shot had found its target.

A moment later, he knew it hadn’t.

The shotgun’s second blast echoed across the far shore. New Hampshire was known for its hunters, but the sheer volume of gunfire coming from the area over the past few minutes had no doubt garnered a few 911 calls. While he’d normally welcome police backup, Miller had no way of knowing just who would be responding to the call. Even the police would be suspect, and he fully intended to be gone by the time they arrived.

Hopefully with Adler alive.

The canoe slid up onto the sand. Miller snatched the notebook, knife, and handgun and jumped onto the beach.

That’s when Adler screamed and Miller knew he might not be quick enough to save her, just like he’d been too slow to save the brown-eyed girl in Iraq.

The gunshot that followed confirmed it.

Miller’s heart hammered painfully in his chest. Not from exertion, but from the fear that Adler had been shot. He had only just met her, but the bond forged by combat—like with soldiers in the trenches—was strong. He’d lost men before, and it rattled the soul every time. But something about the idea of losing Adler seemed worse. Perhaps because she wasn’t a soldier. She worked for Interpol, but spent most of her time behind a desk and on the phone. A bullet had no right to take her life.

Ten feet from the door, Miller checked the Walther P38 and flicked off the safety. The door hung at an odd angle and a jagged chunk of its side had been blasted away, like a giant had taken a bite out of it.

One of Adler’s shots, Miller realized. Seeing no blood splatter, he knew the shot had missed.

He entered the living room like a missile, but found no target. Huber’s body lay on the braided rug, which had absorbed much of the dead man’s blood. Adler lay just beyond him. When she lifted her head, he felt relieved, but the feeling vanished when her eyes went wide and she shouted, “Behind you!”

The impact came before she finished shouting her warning. Miller sprawled forward and landed on his back. Through fading vision he saw a tall, lanky man with a crooked smile. He wore beige Dickies pants and a plaid shirt that made him look like a local. His hair was slicked to the side in a style that looked straight from the 1940s.

Miller blinked, trying to find his bearings. He no longer felt the weight of the gun in his hand. But even if he had it, he doubted he could hit the man. The room spun around him, so much so that he barely registered the tall man who leaned down, raised his weapon, and slammed it into his forehead.

Miller woke to an argument. The voices—one female, one male—sounded furious. But he couldn’t make out a word of it. He remembered being struck and wondered if the blow had injured his ears, or rattled him so thoroughly that he couldn’t make sense of the words being spoken.

Miller forced his eyes open when he realized the verbal combatants spoke German.

Adler, he thought, and opened his eyes.

The room swirled above him and sparks of lights, like fairies, danced in his vision. A swirl of nausea twisted in his gut. The copperlike smell of blood reached his nose. Blood. His, Huber’s, or Adler’s, he wasn’t sure.

Miller closed his eyes, turned his head toward the side, and opened his eyes again. The spinning worsened. He closed his eyes to keep his stomach under control. In that brief, turbulent look, he saw Adler on the floor, propped up on her hands. The tall man stood above her. He held a World War II–era Sturmgewehr 44 assault rifle—the first of its kind—but didn’t have it aimed directly at her.

“Begleiten Sie mich. Ende dieser Dummheit,” the man said. “Eine schöne, reine deutsche Frau wie Sie wäre eine gute Ehefrau in den kommenden ZweitenWeltkrieg zu machen.”

Miller opened his eyes. The spinning seemed less violent, and he saw Adler looking up at the man, her expression torn between fear and deep thought. While the man’s focus remained on Adler, Miller slowly slid a hand beneath his side. He could feel the cold knife against his back. He’d been holding it in one hand when he’d been struck and had fallen on top of it. He slowly wrapped his fingers around the handle.

The man reached a hand out to Adler. “Kommen Sie.”

Was he inviting her to join him? Miller wondered as he slowly slid the knife out from under himself.

When Adler reached her hand up to the man and said, “ Ja. Okay,” Miller’s suspicions were confirmed in the worst way possible. The man offered her an invitation and she accepted.

How could she? Miller thought. He tightened his grip on the knife. Despite her poor choice, he couldn’t let the man take her.

He took aim.

The room still spun.

Shit, he thought. The odds of the knife striking flesh were good, but with Adler and the man so close, he couldn’t be sure which one of them he’d hit.

Adler linked hands with the man. He pulled her up, but her motion didn’t stop. She pulled down on the man’s hand, pulling him forward slightly. Before he could react, she brought her other hand up and around and smashed the butt of the shotgun into his forehead.

The strike wasn’t hard enough to incapacitate the big German, but he let go of Adler’s hand and stumbled back. The man quickly realized he’d been duped and brought his weapon to bear. But Adler was one step ahead of him. Holding the shotgun like a baseball bat, she swung out.

The blow fell just short of the man’s head, but connected solidly with the side of his nose. Cartilage tore, bone cracked, and blood sprayed. The man shouted in pain, and fired off a slew of German curses. But he didn’t lose his composure, or his aim. Instead, he lost his life.

When Adler struck the man, he stumbled back, and stopped just a few feet away from Miller. With a quick jerk, Miller sat up, raised his arm, and plunged the knife into the man’s back. With the assault rifle pointed at Adler, he needed the wound to be an instant kill. Anything else would give the man time to pull the trigger and then turn the weapon on Miller. So when he struck, Miller aimed for the man’s spine.

The jarring blow and instantaneous collapse of his target confirmed his accuracy. He should have felt relieved—that the attacker was dead, that Adler hadn’t actually betrayed him—but all he felt was dizzy. Miller leaned over and held his head.

Adler crouched beside him and placed a hand on his back. “Are you okay?”

Miller opened his eyes. The room spun a little less. “You had me fooled.”

“What?”

“I thought you were going with him.”

“I wanted to be an actress when I was in college,” she confessed.

“Could have made a fortune,” Miller said with a grunt. “Actually, you could have been the first woman in the major leagues with that swing.”

“I was terrified.”

Miller pushed himself to his knees. He kept his eyes closed to minimize the nausea. But he could do nothing about the throbbing pain emanating from his head and rolling down his body in sickening waves. Adler held on to his arm and helped him stand.

He opened his eyes and looked at Adler. “You did good.”