Chapter 12 Thomas
Thomas
The drive to Adlerhorst took four hours. Bisch drove in silence. Will sat beside me as I checked and rechecked the weapons Bisch had provided. He watched the darkness gathering outside the windows.
We had the layout we had observed during our reconnaissance, and we had three men, three guns, and the desperate knowledge that somewhere in that fortress, a woman we loved was being held by people who would kill her without hesitation.
It wasn’t enough.
“I keep thinking about what Manakin said,” Will murmured, low enough that Bisch wouldn’t hear over the engine noise. “About his team arriving in four or five days.”
“That’s too late.”
“I know, but I keep thinking if we survive this, if we actually pull this off, maybe they can help with what comes next.”
“We need to survive this first,” I said without looking up from the pistol I’d just examined for the third time.
“Optimism, Thomas. Try it sometime.”
I reached over and took his hand. “I’m optimistic that I love you. I’m optimistic that whatever happens tonight, I’m glad we’re facing it together.”
He squeezed my fingers. “That’s a start.”
The mountains rose around us, black against the darkening sky.
We found Otto’s car forty minutes later.
It was pulled off the road near the base of the mountain, half hidden in the shadow of the pines. The engine was cold. There was no sign of struggle—or of Otto.
We approached cautiously with weapons drawn. Bisch covered us. Will checked the interior, then emerged holding a folded piece of paper.
“On the dashboard,” he said. “Held in place by the sun visor.”
I took the paper and unfolded it. It was Otto’s careful handwriting, cramped and urgent:
They took her inside. I am following. The eastern drainage—it is clear. I found the entrance. If I do not return, use it.
Do not let them win.
Will handed the note to Bisch.
He read it, and for the first time since we’d known the stoic man, his eyes filled with emotions he couldn’t hide. “He went in alone,” he said quietly. “The fool. The brave, stupid fool.”
“He’s not dead yet,” I said. “And neither is she.”
“You do not know that,” Bisch said.
“No. But I’m choosing to believe it until proven otherwise.
” I checked my pistol one final time and looked up at the fortress looming above us, its lights blazing against the darkness of the alpine night.
“Now, are you going to help us get in there, or are you going to stand here mourning a man who isn’t dead? ”
Bisch stared at me for a long moment, then slowly, the ghost of a smile crossed his face.
“The drainage channel is this way,” he said. “Try to keep up.”