As Gretchen was about to leave the shack, a young boy came rushing in. She recognized him—one of Mathilde’s two younger brothers.
“Max Jungers is outside!” hissed the boy. He leaned over, his face anxious and intense. Gretchen saw the difficulty with which he was controlling his impulse to point.
Her eyes flitted to Mathilde. Mathilde’s own face was tight with apprehension.
“Shit! I thought he’d decided to leave us alone.”
“Who is Max Jungers?” asked Gretchen.
The words came out in a quiet, tumbling rush, from all of the women at once. When they were done, Gretchen nodded. Local tough. Hooligan. Thief. Cutpurse. Would-be pimp.
“The usual,” she muttered. “He has bothered you?”
The women nodded. Mathilde’s little brother was staring at her with open eyes. “I think—” he squeaked. Then, clearing his throat: “I think he’s not here for that.” The boy hesitated, as if abashed. “I think—”
Gretchen chuckled. The sound was as humorless as a razor blade. “Me?”
The boy nodded. The gesture was quick, frightened.
Gretchen rose from her chair. “Well, then. I should go speak to him. Since he came all this way to see me.”
Three seconds later, she was striding out of the shack. The women watched her go, gaping. There they squatted, for a moment, before the reality registered. Like a little mob, they rushed to the door and stared out.
Max Jungers, sure enough. He had apparently been lurking at the corner. Now, seeing Gretchen coming down the narrow street, he smiled and ambled toward her across the cobblestones. His hand was resting loosely on the hilt of a dirk scabbarded to his waist.
“Shit!” exclaimed Mathilde again. “There’s going to be trouble!”
Her cousin Inga nodded sadly. “It’s too bad. I liked Gretchen.”
Mathilde stared at her. “Are you mad? Don’t you understand
yet
?”
“Four hundred yards!” snapped Karen. Before the last word was spoken, Julie’s Remington erupted. Less than a second later, the most flamboyantly caparisoned mercenary “leader” was hammered out of his saddle. Julie was using her match ammunition. The 173-grain boat-tail round punched right through the front of his cuirass and took a goodly piece of his heart with it through the backplate.
Julie was not particularly tall for an American girl—five and a half feet—but she weighed a hundred and forty pounds. The shapeliness of her somewhat stocky figure was due entirely to muscle. She absorbed the recoil with no difficulty at all. A quick, practiced, easy motion jacked another round into the chamber.
“Target area six!” snapped Karen. “Three hundred fifty yards! Hat—green feather!”
Julie was standing, to give herself maximum ease of movement. At that range, she was not worried about accuracy. It took her not more than three seconds to bring the next target into her scope.
Crack!
The head beneath a green-feathered hat spilled blood and brains. The horseman slumped sidewise out of the saddle.
“Fuck,” grunted Julie.
“Missed!”
Mackay’s eyes were like saucers. Mike was amused—and half-appalled. “She was aiming for what James calls the ’sniper’s triangle’—both eyes down to the breastbone,” he explained. “That shot was a little high.”
Karen: “Area three! Three hundred fifty again! Big old floppy hat!”
Crack!
A cavalryman was driven out of his saddle onto the rump of his horse. A red stain appeared on his cloth coat, just above the belt buckle. Behind him, a much larger pool of blood spilled down his mount’s tail.
“Shit!”
screeched Julie. She jacked another round into the chamber. The gesture was angry, frustrated. Her uncle hurried toward her. In the distance, Mike could see the cavalryman clutching his stomach. His legs flopped uselessly, trying to hold him onto the horse. Mike realized his spine was severed. A second later, he was toppling off the horse. He hit the ground like a sack.
“Five ring at six o’clock,” said Mike softly. “She’s off a little.” He glanced at Mackay. The Scotsman had transferred the wide-eyed stare to Julie.
Frank was at her side now. Karen started to call out another target, but Frank waved her down. With one hand on Julie’s shoulder, Frank was speaking urgently into his niece’s ear.
Mike could just hear the words. “Take it easy, baby. Just buck fever, that’s all it is. The bastards are going down. You aren’t wide, just off your elevation. Easy to fix. Just take a breath—relax—that’s it.”
Julie took a deep breath and began easing it out. Another. She flashed her uncle a quick, thankful smile. Frank smiled back for an instant, before frowning ferociously.
“And don’t let me hear you using that kind of language again, young lady!” He started wagging his finger.
“You?” demanded Julie. “Foul-mouth Frank himself? Ha!”
Cheerily, now—smiling—Julie looked to Karen.
“Call ’em out!”
Karen was right on the job. “Area one! Four hundred yards! The fatso!”
Crack!
A heavyset officer lost the proverbial pound of flesh—right from the heart itself. The shot was perfect.
And so were the rest.
Crack! Crack!
Down, down.
Frank reloaded for her while Julie rested her shoulder. She was back to work in seconds.
Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!
“Aye, an’ she’s t’true Queen o’ Hearts,” whispered Mackay.
When Gretchen was fifteen feet away from Jungers, she stopped. So did he, leering cheerfully. He took his hand from the dirk and planted his arms akimbo.
“Well now, girl—it seems to me—”
“Did you see my husband?” interrupted Gretchen.
Jungers broke off. For an instant, his face was still. Then, just as quickly, the leer was back. More of a sneer, really.
“The big fat one? Not worried about him.”
“No reason to be,” agreed Gretchen. She nodded, then smiled. The smile was very thin. Like a razor.
“He would have tried to reason with you. That’s why I love him so.” Gretchen reached into her bodice and removed the 9mm. The motion was easy and relaxed. So was the way she levered the slide. So was the way she slipped into a firing crouch, and brought the pistol up in a two-handed grip. She had spent hours and hours on the firing range, over the past few weeks, being trained by Dan Frost.
Jungers’ eyes widened. But he never thought to reach for his dirk. He didn’t recognize the pistol for what it was, until the first shot was fired. But that shot blew out his cerebellum along with his teeth, so the thought was fleeting.
Gretchen stepped up four paces, aimed at the body lying on the street, and fired again. That round went into the heart. There was no need for it, but Dan had trained her to go for the body mass shot. “No headshots unless they’re wearing armor,” he had insisted, over and again. Gretchen was feeling a little guilty. She just hadn’t been able to resist wiping that leer away.
The mercenaries were truly a mob by now, milling aimlessly. Their pikes bristled in all directions, like a porcupine. Dozens of arquebuses were fired at random, blasting at nearby shrubbery.
“I’ll be damned,” hissed Mike. “They don’t even realize what’s killing them.”
“At this range?”
choked Mackay. “They’ve not a thought in the world!” The young commander gave his head a sharp shake. He was finally able to tear his eyes away from Julie and look down the slope behind him. Far below, Lennox’s upturned face was staring back, waiting for the command.
Alex whipped off his hat and waved it. Lennox spurred his horse into motion, bellowing his own commands. Within thirty seconds, the Scots cavalry was pounding around the eastern end of the little ridge, aiming to encircle the left flank of the mercenaries by using the crossroad.
In those thirty seconds, Julie extracted three additional hearts. Then there was a pause. The mercenaries had finally realized that only cavalrymen—officers—were being targeted. Every man on a horse who was still alive had clambered off. Most of the men wearing fancy headgear had removed it like so many snakes.
Mike heard Karen muttering. “Have to just pick ’em at random now. Okay. Area three! Any—”
“Hold up!”
shouted Mike. “Hold up, Julie! That’s enough!”
He raised his binoculars. The mercenaries and their camp followers were crowded into a rough, packed circle. Julie’s long-range massacre had confused them utterly. They had assumed themselves to be under attack from nearby skirmishers, and had taken position to charge in any direction once the enemy was spotted. By the time they saw the Scots cavalry pouring out from behind the ridge, it was too late to even think of fleeing. Most of them were on foot, and the cavalrymen didn’t dare get back on their horses.
Mike turned. Gayle was right there, handing him the CB. “Okay,” he ordered into the radio. “APC move up. Remember, guys—I want a surrender, not a slaughter. So start with the loudspeakers.”
Below, the APC’s engine roared into life. Hearing the sound behind them, Heinrich and his men immediately cleared a path down the middle of the road. Seconds later, the APC went charging through the gap. The German at the loudspeaker microphone was already bellowing out the terms of surrender.
“
You are surrounded. Lay down your weapons. Quarter will be given to all unarmed men. Your women and your possessions will not be touched. Lay down your weapons. New terms of enlistment will be offered. Pay—good pay—food and shelter. Only to unarmed men. Lay down your weapons. Quarter will be given—
”
On and on, over and over. By the time the APC reached the mercenaries—still hundreds of yards from the ridge—many of them were beginning to lay down their pikes and firearms. To the north, the Scots had finished the encirclement and were beginning to trot forward. Hurriedly, all the mercenaries began to disarm.
“A combination of the old and the new,” mused Mike. Changing sides was common practice in this day and age, for surrendered soldiers. Even if APCs and rifles which could slay unerringly across a fourth of a mile were almost like magic. “Old and the new.”
He turned to Mackay, but saw that the Scotsman’s mind was elsewhere.
“God in His Heaven,” whispered Alex. “I’ve been in—what?—call it six battles. Never killed that many men. Not in all my days put together.”
Mike followed his eyes. Julie was leaning against the tree. So was her rifle. She was staring at the enemy, her arms crossed over her chest. Her face was blank as a sheet. Frank put his hand on her shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. That gesture brought Julie’s own hand up, covering her uncle’s. Other than that—
Nothing.
“Can you handle this, young man?” asked Mike softly.
Mackay never looked away. His tongue, again, swept teeth under tight lips. “Where does this dentist do his work?” he asked.
“I’ll take you there myself.” Mike smiled. “As it happens, I don’t think any better of her boyfriend than Frank or Henry.”
“There will be trouble,” muttered Mathilde. She was now standing alongside Gretchen, not ten feet from Jungers’ body. Mathilde plucked at Gretchen’s sleeve. “Come. He was nothing but garbage. If we are not here when the Watch arrives, they will not question anything. Just another street killing.”
Gretchen swiveled her head. Her eyes widened slightly. “Oh, but I want them to,” was her reply. And she refused to budge thereafter, for all of Mathilde’s pleas.
“And maybe not,” concluded Heinrich. He grinned at Ferdinand. “So what do you say now, wise man? Ever been in such an easy fight in your life?”
Heinrich spread his arms and looked down, inspecting his body. “Look! Not even a speck of dust. Much less blood and guts.”
Ferdinand glared at him. But not for more than a moment or two. Then he raised his head and gazed at the girl standing by the small tree atop the ridge. He heaved a deep sigh.
“Ah . . . ! I still say—
ah!
”
He rubbed his side. Even beneath the heavy cloth, Ferdinand could feel the ridged scar tissue. A pike had done for that, years ago, somewhere in Bohemia.
Suddenly, he snatched the helmet off his head and raised it high.
“Joo-li!”
he cried.
“Let’s hear it for Joo-li!”
The cheer was echoed instantly by all the men in the German contingent. Almost two hundred helmets were raised high—a good number of them atop bayonets.
“JOO-LI! JOO-LI! JOO-LI!”
The watchmen who formed Jena’s constabulary trailed after Gretchen like minnows after a shark. The Chief of the Watch scurried at her side, trying to match her striding steps. His hands fluttered with protest.
“There must be an investigation!” he exclaimed. “An investigation!”
“Absolutely!”
boomed Gretchen. “My husband will insist!” She smiled down at the short, portly Chief. “You remember him, perhaps? The large man on the motorcycle? With the shotgun?”
The Chief of the Watch
had
seen him, in fact. And he could guess—not that he wanted to—as to the meaning of the strange terms “motorcycle” and “shotgun.”
“A very short investigation,” he muttered. “Only a formality.”
“I think not!” boomed Gretchen. “My husband will insist otherwise!”
Again, she smiled. “And I, of course, must obey his every wish.”
Finally, Julie’s face gained an expression. She blushed with embarrassment, hearing the cheers coming from below in thick German accents. Then, blushed deeper still. The American soldiers now climbing up the ridge were cheering themselves.
