Webley revolver in the other. He’d been smiling then, but today the expression on his scarred face was grim.
Canvas covered the rear of the truck, a small three-quarter-ton job that was handy for transporting weapons or a few men tightly packed. It was bigger than a jeep, but not by a lot. What it did have going for it was that no one could see me, and that Kaz had stashed gear, weapons, food, and water in the back. I lifted aside the canvas flap and saw Banville following us in the stolen jeep, far enough back not to be choked on our dust. Banville. That name was familiar. I did know him. A British sailor. From where?
As we rounded a curve I noted a group of tents with aerials thrusting toward the sky, protected from overhead view by camouflage netting stretched between palm trees. Wire ran up one tree and across the road. I wondered if Lieutenant Andrews—Rocko’s pal—was in there, working on a German dialer, whatever the hell that was. And if he’d taken a walk down to Capo Soprano last night with a sharp knife. And Charlotte? The voice in Rocko’s tent had mentioned a girl. What was a girl named Charlotte doing mixed up in this?
“They are friends of yours, these English?” Sciafani asked from the bench opposite, jolting me from my thoughts.
“Yeah, yeah, I know them. Kaz is Polish, though.”
“Ah, the Poles,” Sciafani said. “As unfortunate in their geography as we Sicilians. Destined to be overrun by armies from the east and west, just as the Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans, Moors, and Normans have conquered us. They have all come here, but only the siciliano remains.”
I barely heard Sciafani’s history lecture. I was remembering what I hadn’t wanted to remember about Kaz. His scar. And Daphne Seaton, who had loved him and had been my friend. Daphne, who’d been murdered to keep her silent, a car explosion immolating her and ripping Kaz’s face and heart. I remembered my resolve to keep Kaz busy, to keep him from blowing his brains out. Based on the look on his face I realized I hadn’t been doing my job. Kaz liked to be amused, and he had often said that working with me made him interested in what tomorrow might bring. Now he didn’t look much amused at the prospect of today, much less tomorrow.
Something else ate at my gut, but I couldn’t tell what it was. I knew that I hadn’t remembered everything yet. Daphne had been killed, Kaz badly injured, and when he’d returned to duty he’d become a killer who took chances with his life. I didn’t want to think about what else there might be. I rested my head in my hands and tried to quiet the rage in my mind as the unfairness of Daphne’s death and Kaz’s loss overwhelmed all other thoughts.
Daphne and Banville. There was more, about them both. What ?
“Lieutenant Boyle, are you weeping?” Sciafani asked.
I didn’t realize I was until I looked down at the floorboards and saw tiny drops, fading in the heat and vanishing as quickly as they appeared.
CHAPTER • TEN
WE DROVE FOR NEARLY an hour, mostly at a crawl, in the midst of a convoy of trucks and tanks. I tied back the rear canvas flaps for some air, but loosely so they gave us shade and cover from prying eyes. We passed an artillery unit, the short barrels of their 75mm pack howitzers sticking out beneath camouflage netting. Dappled shade cut across the backs of the crewmen kneeling to fire and feed new shells into the smoking breech as each empty casing was rapidly cast aside. The roar of cannon fire was followed by dull crumps on a far hillside where brown dirt puffed into tiny explosions that looked harmless at this distance. But I knew there were small red-hot shards of metal flying through the air, rending flesh wherever they encountered it. Sciafani sat with his head in his hands, and I knew he too was thinking about the men on the ground, his comrades of yesterday, still suffering today. Perhaps he couldn’t bear to watch, with his parole in his pocket and thoughts of
Canvas covered the rear of the truck, a small three-quarter-ton job that was handy for transporting weapons or a few men tightly packed. It was bigger than a jeep, but not by a lot. What it did have going for it was that no one could see me, and that Kaz had stashed gear, weapons, food, and water in the back. I lifted aside the canvas flap and saw Banville following us in the stolen jeep, far enough back not to be choked on our dust. Banville. That name was familiar. I did know him. A British sailor. From where?
As we rounded a curve I noted a group of tents with aerials thrusting toward the sky, protected from overhead view by camouflage netting stretched between palm trees. Wire ran up one tree and across the road. I wondered if Lieutenant Andrews—Rocko’s pal—was in there, working on a German dialer, whatever the hell that was. And if he’d taken a walk down to Capo Soprano last night with a sharp knife. And Charlotte? The voice in Rocko’s tent had mentioned a girl. What was a girl named Charlotte doing mixed up in this?
“They are friends of yours, these English?” Sciafani asked from the bench opposite, jolting me from my thoughts.
“Yeah, yeah, I know them. Kaz is Polish, though.”
“Ah, the Poles,” Sciafani said. “As unfortunate in their geography as we Sicilians. Destined to be overrun by armies from the east and west, just as the Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans, Moors, and Normans have conquered us. They have all come here, but only the siciliano remains.”
I barely heard Sciafani’s history lecture. I was remembering what I hadn’t wanted to remember about Kaz. His scar. And Daphne Seaton, who had loved him and had been my friend. Daphne, who’d been murdered to keep her silent, a car explosion immolating her and ripping Kaz’s face and heart. I remembered my resolve to keep Kaz busy, to keep him from blowing his brains out. Based on the look on his face I realized I hadn’t been doing my job. Kaz liked to be amused, and he had often said that working with me made him interested in what tomorrow might bring. Now he didn’t look much amused at the prospect of today, much less tomorrow.
Something else ate at my gut, but I couldn’t tell what it was. I knew that I hadn’t remembered everything yet. Daphne had been killed, Kaz badly injured, and when he’d returned to duty he’d become a killer who took chances with his life. I didn’t want to think about what else there might be. I rested my head in my hands and tried to quiet the rage in my mind as the unfairness of Daphne’s death and Kaz’s loss overwhelmed all other thoughts.
Daphne and Banville. There was more, about them both. What ?
“Lieutenant Boyle, are you weeping?” Sciafani asked.
I didn’t realize I was until I looked down at the floorboards and saw tiny drops, fading in the heat and vanishing as quickly as they appeared.
CHAPTER • TEN
WE DROVE FOR NEARLY an hour, mostly at a crawl, in the midst of a convoy of trucks and tanks. I tied back the rear canvas flaps for some air, but loosely so they gave us shade and cover from prying eyes. We passed an artillery unit, the short barrels of their 75mm pack howitzers sticking out beneath camouflage netting. Dappled shade cut across the backs of the crewmen kneeling to fire and feed new shells into the smoking breech as each empty casing was rapidly cast aside. The roar of cannon fire was followed by dull crumps on a far hillside where brown dirt puffed into tiny explosions that looked harmless at this distance. But I knew there were small red-hot shards of metal flying through the air, rending flesh wherever they encountered it. Sciafani sat with his head in his hands, and I knew he too was thinking about the men on the ground, his comrades of yesterday, still suffering today. Perhaps he couldn’t bear to watch, with his parole in his pocket and thoughts of
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