Chapter Twelve

The lieutenant's office perched on the second floor of the German headquarters, awash in the warm, late afternoon sun. Dust motes swirled in the golden light, illuminating the gilt frame of the Hitler portrait that hung above Wilhelm's desk. He sat, meticulously processing soldiers' leave requests.

A moment later, a sharp creak shattered the stillness. The door swung inward, revealing Lieutenant Oskar Dietrich. His uniform bore the subtle scent of wood smoke. He moved to his desk, his gaze immediately drawn to the investigation report. "A member of the French resistance attacked a Wehrmacht soldier at the checkpoint this morning," he said to Wilhelm, his voice low and controlled. "Andre Platini. He was caught hiding firearms, bullets and dynamites beneath a load of sand and bricks in his truck. He was shot while trying to escape."

Wilhelm nodded slowly, his expression serious. "The resistance is growing bolder in this village. I assume this Platini is connected to those Vive De Gaulle stickers I saw two days ago."

"Undoubtedly orchestrated by his fellow resistors," Oskar replied, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "It seems they're preparing something . . . an attack."

Wilhelm remained silent, his eyes locked on Oskar. The intensity of Oskar's stare was predatory, a chilling reminder of the war crimes Wilhelm witnessed – the cold-blooded slaughter of Polish prisoners, a memory that still haunted Wilhelm.

"I won't let it happen," Oskar's jaw tightened, his voice hardening."I will teach them a lesson," He tapped the report."The truck registration plate leads to Pierre Courteau. I suspect he's deeply involved. My men will arrest him today. He'll talk."

Wilhelm's gaze remained fixed on Oskar. "And if he doesn't?"

A cruel smile twisted Oskar's lips, revealing a flash of something cold and brutal. "If he refuses, he'll understand the consequence of silence. Pain has a way of breaking even the strongest wills."

In that moment, a German military truck shuddered to a halt outside Pierre's workshop, its engine's roar slicing through the quiet afternoon. His workshop was a small building nestled among other artisan shop. It was usually bustling with the sound of hammer and chisel. Today an ominous silence hung in the air. Pierre froze mid-stroke, his hands stained with the residue of his craft. The scent of freshly-cut wood momentarily lost in fear. He knew without a doubt why they were here.

The truck doors swung open with a violent clung, disgorging a tide of soldiers, their face grim and unforgiving, and their rifles glinting menacingly in the sunlight. Pierre's heart pounded violently against his ribs. He glanced at the back of his workshop, a desperate glimmer of hope igniting in his eyes. He launched himself toward an alleyway that was barely wide enough for a cart.

The soldiers reacted instantly. Their shouts were a harsh counterpoint to the frantic hammering of Pierre's heart. The chase was on. They ran through the narrow streets and cluttered alleyways of the artisan quarter. Pierre weaved through the throngs of people, his breath ragged, and his muscles screaming in protest. He glanced over his shoulder. The soldiers were gaining. He ducked into a shadowed passage, the sounds of pursuit growing closer. He sprinted, weaving between overflowing bins. But the maze-like streets offered little protection from the relentless pursuit.

A guttural shout pierced the air, followed by the sharp crack of a rifle butt against the wooden crates – a warning, not a kill shot. Pierre stumbled, his leg twisting in the uneven cobblestones. He knew he couldn't outrun them.

He collapsed, defeated onto the cobblestones, the weight of failure pressing down him. The soldiers surrounded him and their rifles trained on his chest. Oskar emerged from the shadows, his face devoid of emotion. He didn't need to speak. The cruel glint in his eyes spoke volume. Pierre's desperate struggle was over.