Free Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series) by Colin Gee Page A

sleeping men some thirty metres to his front, nor for the sound to reach the ears of the handful of men patrolling the makeshift camp.
    His men, well schooled in the art s of killing, watched as he made his hand signals, dispatching silent killers into the darkness, compromised only by the light of the moon and stars, and the small glow of a light in the single tent at the centre of the clearing.
    Behind him, as well as to either side, MG42’s silently waited, ready to turn the woods into a cemetery at a moment’s notice.
    Behind him were a handpicked group, twenty men who would be able to undertake the grisly work he had set aside for them, provided the first part went well.
    That first part was in process, his experienced eye seeing the subtle change in shadows as his killers drew closer to the dead men walking.
    Almost imperceptibly, the darkness around one sentry grew darker and the man disappeared for a second, seemingly reappearing, only slightly taller and thinner, and carrying a PPSh rather than the Mosin rifle he had been idly cradling a moment beforehand.
    The nearest sentry decided to relieve himself, settling to unzip his fly at the moment that a dirty hand clapped itself hard to his mouth, pulling his head back, his surprise swiftly overtaken by the momentary pain of a blade severing everything of value in his neck.
    Another sentry, spooked by something he couldn’t exactly understand, dropped to one knee, looking back across the clearing.
    As he watched his two other comrades, apparently patrolling without a care, he relaxed, deciding to drop into the bushes to sample one of the American cigarettes he had taken from the bloated corpse he had found outside of Regensburg , the night before.
    His lighter flared, granting him flame for his cigarette and light to see the man who killed him.
    The impact knocked the cigarette from his grasp and he fell to the ground, the full weight of his attacker on top of him.
    Winded and unable to speak, he tried to stand but the weight increased , and a hand held his mouth tight as he struggled face down in the leaves of the newly arrived autumn.
    The Werewolf Kommando rammed his pointed knife into the base of the Russian’s skull, severing the spinal column.
    SS-Hauptsturmfuhrer Lenz saw the last sentry go down and gestured his assault group forward, the score of killers swiftly passing by, the occasional muffled sound marking their progress until they halted, commencing the grisly work of the night.
    SS-Kommando Lenz worked its way through the camp, dispatching the NKVD troopers of the 36th NKVD Convoy Forces Security Division silently and swiftly, employing blades for the most part.
    Two of the men stood with silenced pistols, ready should a man awaken prematurely.
    They were not needed.
    The group spread through the camp, until only the tent had been left untouched, and fifty-seven young men had been brutally slain.
    Artur Lenz strolled forward, his body once more accustomed to the rigours of war after weeks on the move avoiding Soviet security forces. Tonight he was making a statement, destroying one such force before swiftly relocating to another area.
    There was also something he wanted to know.
    As he assembled his men in the clearing, the MG42 teams relocated, providing external security now, the remainder of the Kommando adding to the ring around the camp, now facing outwards and ready for all comers.
    Still no verbal commands had been issued; such was the expertise that SS-Kommando Lenz had developed since the start of the new war.
    Readying his ST44, Lenz nodded at one of his men who spoke in casual Russian.
    “Tovarich Kapitan, a word please.”
    The sound of movement inside indicated that the words had been received and the NKVD officer emerged sleepily, suddenly becoming wide-awake when he saw the muzzle of Lenz’s assault rifle aimed at his chest.
    Behind him came the unit’s senior NCO, his PPSh useless in his hands, resistance so clearly futile.
    Disarmed,