Free Hammer of Angels: A Novel of Shadowstorm by G. T. Almasi Page B

deer.
    Or … is that a person?
    I scamper inside my tent and shake Brando awake. “Darwin, wake up. I think someone’s coming into camp.” His eyes pop open, and he wriggles out of his sleeping bag. I strap on my holster and stuff Li’l Bertha inside. We both pull on our outer layers as fast as we can and pop back outside. The heat source is 900 yards away now. It’s clearly a person. I indicate the approaching figure’s direction while Brando puts on his vision-enhancement goggles.
    â€œWhat do you think?” I comm.
    â€œThe timing is right for it to be someone from York.”
    The person-shaped heat silhouette still surges straight at us. I crank my hearing up and detect the
whup-whup
of a helicopter. I listen some more. The chopped-air sound grows louder and louder.
    Make that a bunch of helicopters.

11
    Same morning, 3:40 A.M. GMT
    Circle of Zion camp, Yorkshire, Province of Great Britain, GG
    I comm, “Rabbi, this is Scarlet. Come in.” Among the equipment we’ve smuggled in and distributed are walkie-talkies that can be recharged with a small hand-cranked generator. We gave some to the Rabbi and showed him how to tune them to our comm frequency. They’re only effective for short-range communication, but they’re perfect for this type of situation.
    The heat-blob person is 400 yards away, but it’s so dark he or she can’t see us. I take a few steps away from Brando and aim my father’s watch toward our guest. I flash the watch face’s light, twice slow, then twice fast. The heat blob puts on a burst of speed.
    My commphone activates. “This is Rabbi. Go ahead, Scarlet.”
    â€œSir, I’ve got an unknown person inbound, and I hear helicopters.”
    â€œCan you tell if they’re coming here?”
    â€œAffirmative.”
    He broadcasts to the other walkie-talkies. “Attention, fellow mice. The cat is returning in force. Disperse and we will regroup via our usual channels.”
    Time to vamoose. Brando throws the shrubbery away from our tent and yanks our packs out while I roll up our sleeping bags. My partner begins to fold the tent’s aluminum frame. Our ExOps trainers insisted we be able to bug out of a bivouac in less than one minute. We finally figured out the only way to do this is to keep anything we aren’t wearing stowed in our big backpacks all the time. All we need to do is strike the tent and bundle up the sleeping bags.
    While my partner finishes getting us ready to leave, I pull out Li’l Bertha and run toward the incoming person. My gun’s sensors see something big and metallic, but it doesn’t fit the profile of a weapon. Then I realize—it’s a bicycle. The helicopters’ racket is loud enough I can yell, “Hey, over here!”
    The cyclist calls out, “Rabbi?”
    â€œNo, he’s busy.” I aim my pistol at the stranger. “Who goes there?”
    The figure pedals toward me and stops. “You are the American?” My night vision reveals the perspiring face of a young blond-haired woman. She speaks with the same German-British accent as Miriam.
    â€œYeah, that’s me.”
    She breathlessly asks, “I must be sure. How many home runs did Babe Ruth win?”
    â€œHow the fuck should I know?”
    â€œWell,” she pants, “that is not what I expected, but I suppose only an American would answer in that way.” She brushes a sweaty lock of hair off her face. “I am Greta, a friend of Arvid’s. I live not far from here. The Gestapo down in York forced Mayor Brun to tell them what little he knew to help them discover his abductors’ location.”
    Crap.
    â€œDid Arvid say how many troops are coming?”
    â€œHe said five helicopters from York took off in this direction.” Greta leans over her handlebars, huffing and puffing. “He was not able to see what the helicopters carry.”
    I comm,