Trophies (54 page)

But the unpoetical parachute harness tugged
at his torso and groin, jerking him awake and dragging him prone
across the field. The canopy billowed about. Sharp stubble poked
his shoulders and back. He grunted, eyes jolting open.

There was a quick release snap somewhere. He
fumbled with the harness, found something, and pressed it. It
clicked and the pressure about his chest released, letting him
twist from the harness. Any possibility of carefully gathering the
miles of cloth into a manageable bundle was swept away when the
rousing breeze yanked the 'chute right out of his hands. Crouched
on his knees, he watched the white silk sail away, like some
demented specter, toward a distant stand of dark waving trees, and
tried to decide if it mattered a whit. Parachutes were reusable,
weren't they? Should he try to chase the thing down? He closed his
eyes and rubbed his face. Nope, he was still drunk, worrying about
a frigging parachute when he should be worrying about himself.

A quivering voice blew with the breeze across
the dark void surrounding him. "Jake, you sure he came down out
here? I thought he was heading nearer town."

Faust's eyes flew open. The wind gusting over
his exposed skin, face and hands, was suddenly chill. He shivered
and hugged himself. The twisting in the pit of his stomach was more
than just alcohol coming back to haunt him. Some deep part of his
soul, something as primeval as the night itself, quaked beneath his
skin. But his conscious mind hadn't yet figured out why.

A second voice spoke, more quietly than the
first, and steadier. "Be quiet, you daft bugger."

Another gust of cold air splashed
across his face, reaching through his skin into his heart and brain
and being. Faust heard his breath rasping in the night's quiet and
tried to still it. But the beating of his heart was just as loud
and would not be calmed.

They spoke in English.

He wanted to be still so his unseen visitors
wouldn't detect his presence, but he had to admit he froze because
he was too scared to move. It took long moments before he could
convince his body to curl over and duck his head down between his
shoulders to hide his face. And no matter what he did, his lungs
demanded oxygen and sounded like a bellows working it.

"Jake, there's something moving over by the
trees."

He was beginning to sympathize with poor
Jake. The daft bugger wouldn't shut up.

"Yeah, I see it. Let's work our way over
there,
quietly
, now."

Faust tensed every muscle he possessed, ready
to run or fight for it. But he wasn't near any trees. His nerves
quivered as the wind danced over his skin. It might be a small
animal, shaking the branches at the far end of the field—then he
remembered how his parachute had billowed about like a live thing
and blown away toward those trees. He stuffed his hand into his
mouth to stifle a giggle.

He held himself still, breathing more easily,
until the discreet footfalls waned in the night. Then he scrambled
up, balanced a moment to make certain he'd stay that way, and
staggered in the opposite direction. A hedgerow bordered the field
at the foot of a small hill, and a white-painted gate partway along
glowed like a beacon. He scuttled toward it. There had to be
somewhere he could hide.

"
I didn't want to stop reading."
~Blue Crab Books

"[A] remarkable surprise." ~Five
Alarm Book Reviews

"J. Gunnar Grey
stole my afternoon!" ~
Sandra Nachlinger
"Author"

Wehrmacht Major Faust has a dangerous secret:
he likes England. But it's May 1940 and his Panzers are blasting
the British Army off Dunkirk's beach, so he keeps his mouth shut
even though it hurts. When the Waffen SS try to murder their
English prisoners of war, Faust helps the POWs escape. Now it's
treason, with his neck on the line.

Then a friend gets him drunk, straps him into
a parachute, and throws him out over Oxford during a bombing run.
He's quickly caught. Because he helped type the battle plan for the
invasion of England, Faust cannot allow himself to be broken in
interrogation. Two German armies depend on it. But every time he
escapes, someone rapes and murders a woman and the English are
looking for someone to hang. He's risking disaster if he stays,
someone else's life if he runs, and execution by the Gestapo if he
makes it home.

Major Stoner, Oxford don turned British
intelligence officer, sees three possibilities. Faust perhaps was
joyriding in that bomber, as he claims. Or he's on a reconnaissance
mission for the German invasion. Or he's a spy. Stoner must break
Faust to learn the truth, no matter how it strains his old heart.
He must save England, and his granddaughter.

Their battlefield is confined to a desktop.
Only one of them can win. Someone must break. Someone must make
a

Deal

with the

Devil

Available from Astraea
Press

Dingbat Publishing

Humble, Texas