Free Shadows Will Fall by Trey Garrison Page A

terrain.
    Rucker expected to make better time, but the combination of being unfamiliar with the territory and having to avoid SS patrols slowed him considerably. Now the sun was setting. The goat trail he followed curved around the side of a bluff and came to an abrupt halt overlooking a bridge that spanned a small river flowing from Lake Vidraru. Hidden by the foliage, he was barely thirty feet from the bridge. The heavy branches from the ancient trees that he was using for cover stretched out over the bridge.
    In the center of the bridge, a horse-drawn cart was carrying a load of hay, but the cart wasn’t moving. The front right wooden spoke wheel was broken, its farmer owner trying to repair it. He was blocking the whole width of the small bridge. Behind the cart, clearly held up from crossing, was one of the SS steam crawlers with a very impatient looking commander sticking his head out of the top hatch. He was yelling at the farmer.
    Rucker checked his satchel, which he’d recovered along with his pistols and other essentials, including the Tesla gun, when he escaped from Poenari. He also had a storm troopers’ standard machine pistol and two potato masher grenades that came with the uniform he’s used as a ruse back at the castle. Now, he dug into the pack, beneath the climbing ropes and grappling hooks, and fished out his canteen. For the moment, he wasn’t going any farther until the steam crawler got on its way.
    The crawler’s commander climbed down from the metal hull, leaving the top hatch open. He was obviously impatient, yelling at the farmer in an animated fashion. The farmer—Rucker assumed, since he didn’t know Hungarian—pointed out that he was doing the best he could. The red-faced commander looked at his watch.
    These Germans and their punctuality, Rucker thought.
    The commander returned to the front of the steam crawler. This time he spoke in German, which Rucker could follow.
    â€œGet the squad out here. Shoot the horses and dump this cart over the side of the bridge. If the owner gives you any trouble or resistance, shoot him as well,” the commander said. “We have a schedule to keep.”
    Rucker was furious. Born and raised on a ranch, he had a soft spot for two things—dogs and horses. There was a time to think and a time to act. And for him, this was no time to think.
    The rear door of the crawler started its slow opening.
    Rucker was already in motion when he saw a solution that solved two problems. He pulled the climbing rope and grappling hook from his pack, along with one of the grenades. With a quick toss, he hooked the branch that spanned the bridge, then wrapped the rope around his left wrist and tested the weight. The crawler’s rear door was now more than halfway open. He yanked the cord on the grenade, lined himself up and leapt forward.
    The rope caught Rucker’s weight, and he swung out directly at the crawler. The commander—standing beside the crawler—stopped and froze, befuddled. As Rucker swung above the crawler, he dropped the grenade into the open top hatch. His momentum carried him away from the bridge, and he said a silent prayer that he’d timed it right. At the apex of his arc, the grenade exploded. The horses reared and the farmer threw himself under the cart. The force of the explosion was amplified by the close quarters, the shrapnel bouncing around inside the crawler’s steel belly. Rucker knew that no one inside could have survived the carnage.
    As he swung back toward the now smoking hull, the commander of the crawler wrestled with his belt holster, trying to pull his Lugar. But he was a heavy armor man, rarely using his pistol for anything. His first two shots went wide. As he was lining up his third, Rucker pulled his own Colt and squeezed off a shot while still swinging, hitting the German dead center. The commander crumpled to the ground in a lifeless heap.
    Rucker released his grip on the