Free The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) by Mark Oldfield

intent on ensuring he kept up, the next there was the shrill whine of the bullet and Paco fell back down the slope, tumbling in a cloud of dust and pebbles until he came to rest against a large rock. The kid looked down at the sargento, the man who had protected him, ensured no one stole his rations and fought off the bullies. The sargento looked back, eyes wide as he realised flight was no longer possible. His rifle lay some six metres away and he stretched out a bloodied arm towards it. He looked back to the kid. But the kid was already climbing again, his boots sending down small dusty flurries of dirt and stones. By the time the sargento died, his last view was of the remnants of the company passing from the scorching day into the welcoming shadows of the trees. Five minutes later, the first Nationalist troops reached him, barely pausing to bayonet the body before they continued their pursuit.
    For a moment, amongst the trees it was quieter. The dull thudding of artillery and the crackle of small-arms fire faded as the men scrambled into the shadows of the little wood. The ground rose steeply and they quickly lost all sense of direction: all they could see were the stunted boughs, their clinging, low-hanging branches impediments to flight as the men struggled beneath the weight of their equipment. Soon, they began to throw off their extra ammunition, even their water bottles, and those who still had their packs dropped them to the ground. The political commissar tried to get them to stay together in a compact group, to fight a rearguard action to hold back the Nationalists until reinforcements arrived, unlikely though it was. He demanded three men remain in the trees to act as snipers, delaying Franco’s men while the others continued the retreat. The men were on the verge of hysteria. They could hear the shouts of the Moors below on the hillside. The political commissar drew his pistol, threatening to shoot one of them as an example to the others. Realising the men were ignoring him, the political commissar fired a shot into the air, bringing down parts of the tree beneath which he was standing and showering those around him with leaves. The crack of the pistol echoed across the hillside. A sudden volley of shots told them the Moors had heard the pistol and were now pursuing them with greater precision as a result. It was then the political commissar was killed.

MADRID 2009, CALLE DE SAN VICENTE FERRER
     
    Daylight filtered warm and soft through the shutters. Outside, the bustle of the market and the chaotic tension of traffic were just beginning. It was early, though the heat was already enough to make Galindez kick away the sheet. The air felt cool on her skin as she slipped from the bed leaving the profesora to continue sleeping.
    Galindez idly looked around the bedroom, hearing the street outside coming to life, watching the sun move slowly over the bookshelves. So many books on just one theme, several written by Luisa. The titles all suitably professorial – Forgetting the Past: the grave secrets of the Civil War; Not So Hidden Secrets: war graves and complicity in everyday discourse 1940–1976; Where Do They Lie?: Geographies of Forgetting in Contemporary Spain . She yawned and looked for another book. Luisa continued to sleep. Galindez stretched lazily, suddenly realising she was bored.
    It wasn’t that sex with Luisa wasn’t good. Luisa’s inventiveness was surprising. But something had come between them and, strangely, it was a man. The mysterious Comandante Guzmán. Luisa’s research into the enigmatic police chief had begun to enthuse Galindez as very little else in her adult life had. Even so, something was starting to bother her about the profesora . The night before, Luisa set off alarm bells when describing the methods she used in her research into Guzmán and his activities. For Galindez, Luisa’s most serious failing was her disdain for science: those templates of knowledge Galindez had