Rage replaced common sense for 27 was insane with frustration and anger. Mein Gott! he thought. Is all our planning going to end on this ridiculous spit of land?
Never!
If nothing else he would kill this Yankee bastard.
Twenty-seven grabbed at his calf, pulled the SS dagger from its sheath. He struggled to his knees and as Keegan jumped toward him, 27 slashed out with the knife. Its blade buried in Keegan’s cheek and sliced upward through his eye socket, biting into his skull. Pain exploded in Keegan’s face and he almost blacked out. But he was too close, he’d come too far. He wouldn’t, couldn’t fail. The pain was nothing compared to Jenny’s pain, to the pain of all of 27’s victims. Keegan grabbed 27’s wrist, twisted it up and away from him, heard the bone snap and saw the dagger flip away. Still hanging on, he smashed 27 in the face with his fist, then hit him again and again, knocking the German backward until 27 pulled free. The Nazi staggered out of his reach. In the flashing lightning, he saw Keegan glaring at him with his good eye, his face twisted in hatred and rage.
Twenty-seven darted sideways and slashed his foot out, burying it in Keegan’s stomach. Keegan’s breath burst from his lips and he was slammed back against the wall of the tennis court. He fell to his knees as 27 closed in on him. Bleary-eyed, he saw the gleaming blade of the Nazi dagger lying in the mud, its handle an inch from his hand. He snatched it up and as 27 grabbed Keegan’s shoulder, the American swung his arm blindly. The blade glittered in a flash of lightning. Keegan felt it strike, rip through flesh as he completed the swing and fell back to his knees.
Siebenundzwanzig shrieked in pain. He swayed backward, clutching his throat, hit a tree and collapsed at its base. Keegan pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, pressed it against his throbbing eye. He struggled to his feet and looked down at Siebenundzwanzig.
Pain racked 27’s body; hot fire coursing down from his throat, down to his fingers and toes. Everything was going numb. In the jagged bursts of light, he saw his enemy face-to face for the first time. He tried to cry out but his vocal cords were ruined. He couldn’t breathe. The salt of his blood filled his mouth. He was numb all over.
His mouth bobbed silently as he made one last attempt to verbalize his rage and hate. Nothing.
The Nazi arched his back against the tree, gasping for breath, his anguished wheeze suffocated by his own blood. His windpipe and jugular had been severed by the slashing dagger. His feet thrashed in the mud and then began to shake uncontrollably as he literally choked to death. He stiffened and cried out, a stifled, pitiful animal whimper. Then he fell sideways in the mud.
Keegan stared down at his dead enemy. Twenty-seven’s mouth gaped open. Rain spattered on his glazed eyes. Blood seeped into the murky puddles around his face. Keegan staggered to his feet, leaned against the wall of the tennis court. For the first time in too many years, he was able to breathe a sigh of relief.
He made his way back toward the clubhouse, walked unsteadily into the dining room, a blood-soaked handkerchief pressed against his eye, his shoulder a soggy mess, the dagger still clenched in his hand.
“Get the doctor,” someone said.
Keegan did not slow down. He brushed through the confused crowd in the dining room and walked to Lady Penelope Traynor’s table. She stared at him with fear. He raised the hand with the dagger and slashed it down. The dagger’s point bit into the table and it stuck there. A hint of blood glistened on its wet blade. Lady Traynor stared bleakly at the weapon, at the swastika and the SS runes on the handle, the symbols of her vanished power.
“Sorry, Lady Penelope,” Keegan rasped, “the wedding’s off.”
EPILOGUE
Austria:
May 7, 1945
The American jeep drove rapidly up the dirt road toward the burned-out ruin of a castle, spewing dust out behind it. An American wearing a worn leather jacket with the gold leaves of a major pinned to the shoulders and an army officer’s hat cocked on the back of his head sat beside the driver. He wore no other uniform. His pants were brown corduroy and his shirt was dark blue wool. A black patch covered his right eye and a thin scar etched from under it down across his cheek.
In the backseat, a dark-haired, bearded man leaned back with his arms stretched out on the rear of the seat. He was wearing dark work pants, a black turtleneck sweater and a tweed cap. His rifle lay casually across his knees.
Beside the road were forlorn remnants of the Third Reich. Burned-out German tanks, staff cars, a motorcycle or two lay abandoned in ditches along the narrow roadway. Weary but smiling GI’s, sitting along the shoulders, tossed half-hearted salutes at the major with the patch over his eye as the jeep passed.
The radio was tuned to Armed Forces Radio. A GI disk jockey was babbling with excitement and had been for an hour. His voice was beginning to crack from the strain.
“That’s right, all you GI Joes out there, it’s all over! The war in Europe is over. At two-forty-one A.M., Germany unconditionally surrendered. Remember this day, guys, it’s Liberation Day! May seventh, 1945, the day we won the war. .
The major leaned forward and snapped off the radio.
“Geez, Major Keegan,” the driver said, “the war’s over.”
“It isn’t over till it’s over,” Keegan answered.
The bearded man in the backseat said nothing. He stared straight ahead.
The sergeant pulled up in front of the ancient German castle, swung the jeep in a tight arc and parked in front of a long, wide flight of marble steps that led to the entrance. Keegan and his companion jumped out and started up the stairs. An American flag waved from a flagpole attached to the arch over the door.
The Gothic structure had not fared well in the fighting south of Munich. Its windows were blown out and covered with tattered canvas. One wing of the château had been bombed and now lay in ruins. The roof on the main house was burned out and the face of the old place was scorched.
A military police corporal looked suspiciously at Keegan’s makeshift uniform and the leaves on his shoulder before finally deciding to salute.
“Corporal, I’m Major Keegan. This is my aide. I think you’re expecting me.”
The corporal straightened up when he heard the name.
“Oh, yes sir! Right this way, sir.”
He led the two men into the gloomy interior of the place. Ceilings towered above a wide marble hallway. The grand staircase ended abruptly just before it reached the first floor. A gaping hole in the wall behind it had been boarded up.
“This place is a mess,” Keegan said.
“Some Kraut general was using it for a command post,” the corporal said. “A squadron of P-51s really kicked the shi .
excuse me, sir, kicked the crap out of the place.”
“You can say shit in front of me, Corporal,” Keegan said. “I’m old enough to vote.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What happened to the general?”
“I hear they scraped him off the wall. We found the old man hiding down in the wine cellar. He was a sight.”
They walked almost to the end of the hall. The corporal nodded toward a door.
“In there, sir.”
“Thanks. Congratulations, Corporal.”
“What for, sir?”
“Winning the war, kid,” he said, and entered the room.