The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 2: Cold Wars (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #2) by Michael Panush
Authors: Michael Panush
Ads: Link
incoming!”
He scrambled into the trench that his men had dug, next to Newt and Dutch. All three men raised their guns, aiming them into the woods. Tiny prepped the machine gun, threading in a belt and cocking it. In the steeple, Elkins leaned the barrel of his rifle on the ledge. Charlie stood inside, a stolen MP40 sub-gun in his hands, ready to go where he was needed.
The Germans started coming in. They were moving through the trees, dozens of them. These were the brawny Waffen-SS fighters, wearing dark forest or pure white winter camouflage. They were big men, Teutonic giants unleashed on an unsuspecting world. Candle didn’t allow himself time to be scared. He started firing, careful bursts that dropped the nearby Nazis.
Tiny’s .30 cal roared to life behind them, sweeping the forest with lead. Bark and branches went down, and men did too, ripped to red shreds by the heavy gunfire. Newt and Dutch rattled away, their carbines spitting out lead nearly in tandem. Morton didn’t like it. It was all going too well.
A mortar round came whistling down, striking the side of the church and raising a fountain of dirt and flame. Candle wasn’t panicking. He simply waited and listened, and then Elkins’ sniper rifle cracked off a shot, and then another. The mortar team had to have been nearby. That was their mistake. Elkins never missed, and the Germans wouldn’t be stupid enough to try that again.
Sergeant Candle and his squad fell into the familiar pattern, a well-practiced dance they had done since Normandy. Flanking fire, covering fire, suppressing fire, reload and do it again. Herding the enemy where they wanted him to go with bullets and the occasional grenade. And when the enemy reached the chosen destination, he got a long burst from Tiny’s .30 cal. Candle didn’t like how well it was going. He knew the bad times were going to get there soon.
Then he heard the rumble of a Panzer tank drawing closer, and knew the bad times had arrived. Mort Candle peered through the shade under the trees as the treads whirred through dirt. He recognized the tank instantly. It was a Tiger, a vehicle legendary for its sheer power. The 88 mm gun swung their way, slow and ominous as an executioner’s axe.
“Fall back to the church!” Candle cried. Newt and Dutch hurried for the doors, and Mort would have followed them, if the tank hadn’t chosen that moment to fire.
Mort went into the air. He was lucky, the explosion striking only near the edge of the trench. But it still knocked him flat on his back and left his ears ringing. Everything went slow and soft around him. Candle gritted his teeth, grabbed his gun and started firing, even as he summoned up the strength to move. The Tiger’s only machine gun started to whine, cutting into the ancient stone walls of the church. The German infantry in the woods surged towards the church, using the tank as cover.
A hand gripped Mort’s arm and hauled him back, like he was a child. He looked up and saw it was Tiny. The big gunner hurled captured stick grenades into the German ranks. “Come and get some of that, you hear!” he bellowed. “I got plenty more, just you see!” They started going off, blasting back the infantry. Tiny hurled back Mort and tossed him inside the church like the sergeant was a bundle of rags.
“Tiny, you imbecile!” Mort tried to sit up, but it was too late. A bullet burned into Tiny’s side, flattening him on the ground. Candle felt a bit better now, and he grabbed his Thompson and prepared to run to his friend.
Charlie beat him to it. “Cover me, sir!” Charlie shouted, dashing out. His pistol was flashing in one hand, a medical kit held tightly in the other. “Taking out that tank would be nice!”
“You got it.” Mort looked back at Dutch and Newt. “Come on, boys,” he said. “That Panzer ain’t gonna wait all day.”
They dashed outside, running straight for the tank. They split up, weaving across the open field. The Tiger Tank’s
He scrambled into the trench that his men had dug, next to Newt and Dutch. All three men raised their guns, aiming them into the woods. Tiny prepped the machine gun, threading in a belt and cocking it. In the steeple, Elkins leaned the barrel of his rifle on the ledge. Charlie stood inside, a stolen MP40 sub-gun in his hands, ready to go where he was needed.
The Germans started coming in. They were moving through the trees, dozens of them. These were the brawny Waffen-SS fighters, wearing dark forest or pure white winter camouflage. They were big men, Teutonic giants unleashed on an unsuspecting world. Candle didn’t allow himself time to be scared. He started firing, careful bursts that dropped the nearby Nazis.
Tiny’s .30 cal roared to life behind them, sweeping the forest with lead. Bark and branches went down, and men did too, ripped to red shreds by the heavy gunfire. Newt and Dutch rattled away, their carbines spitting out lead nearly in tandem. Morton didn’t like it. It was all going too well.
A mortar round came whistling down, striking the side of the church and raising a fountain of dirt and flame. Candle wasn’t panicking. He simply waited and listened, and then Elkins’ sniper rifle cracked off a shot, and then another. The mortar team had to have been nearby. That was their mistake. Elkins never missed, and the Germans wouldn’t be stupid enough to try that again.
Sergeant Candle and his squad fell into the familiar pattern, a well-practiced dance they had done since Normandy. Flanking fire, covering fire, suppressing fire, reload and do it again. Herding the enemy where they wanted him to go with bullets and the occasional grenade. And when the enemy reached the chosen destination, he got a long burst from Tiny’s .30 cal. Candle didn’t like how well it was going. He knew the bad times were going to get there soon.
Then he heard the rumble of a Panzer tank drawing closer, and knew the bad times had arrived. Mort Candle peered through the shade under the trees as the treads whirred through dirt. He recognized the tank instantly. It was a Tiger, a vehicle legendary for its sheer power. The 88 mm gun swung their way, slow and ominous as an executioner’s axe.
“Fall back to the church!” Candle cried. Newt and Dutch hurried for the doors, and Mort would have followed them, if the tank hadn’t chosen that moment to fire.
Mort went into the air. He was lucky, the explosion striking only near the edge of the trench. But it still knocked him flat on his back and left his ears ringing. Everything went slow and soft around him. Candle gritted his teeth, grabbed his gun and started firing, even as he summoned up the strength to move. The Tiger’s only machine gun started to whine, cutting into the ancient stone walls of the church. The German infantry in the woods surged towards the church, using the tank as cover.
A hand gripped Mort’s arm and hauled him back, like he was a child. He looked up and saw it was Tiny. The big gunner hurled captured stick grenades into the German ranks. “Come and get some of that, you hear!” he bellowed. “I got plenty more, just you see!” They started going off, blasting back the infantry. Tiny hurled back Mort and tossed him inside the church like the sergeant was a bundle of rags.
“Tiny, you imbecile!” Mort tried to sit up, but it was too late. A bullet burned into Tiny’s side, flattening him on the ground. Candle felt a bit better now, and he grabbed his Thompson and prepared to run to his friend.
Charlie beat him to it. “Cover me, sir!” Charlie shouted, dashing out. His pistol was flashing in one hand, a medical kit held tightly in the other. “Taking out that tank would be nice!”
“You got it.” Mort looked back at Dutch and Newt. “Come on, boys,” he said. “That Panzer ain’t gonna wait all day.”
They dashed outside, running straight for the tank. They split up, weaving across the open field. The Tiger Tank’s
Similar Books
