Chapter 10 Not Alone Anymore
TEN
NOT ALONE ANYMORE
TOM
Morning brought grey light and a knock at my door.
I was up and dressed before I'd fully registered the sound, body responding to potential threat before my mind caught up. When I opened the door, Captain Finch stood in the corridor, his breath fogging in the cold air.
An unusual visit. Finch summoned people to his office. He didn't make house calls.
“May I come in, Sergeant?”
I stepped aside, letting him into the cramped space of my billet.
He looked around once, taking in the narrow bed, the small stove, the service pistol on the bedside table.
His gaze lingered on the photograph of my family propped against the lamp, and something flickered across his face.
Recognition, maybe. The understanding of a man who knew what it meant to have people waiting for you to come home.
“Pembroke cracked the code,” he said. “We have the location.”
The words settled into my chest like stones.
“Saint-Laurent-du-Var.” Finch moved to the small window, staring out at the snow-covered grounds.
His reflection in the glass looked older than the man I saw in briefings, more worn.
“Three-vehicle convoy, light security. Transport is arranged for tomorrow evening.
You'll be extracted by a local Resistance cell and guided to the position overnight.”
He turned back to face me, and I saw the weight he was carrying. The tight set of his shoulders, the lines etched deep around his mouth. This wasn't a man delivering orders. This was a man sending someone into danger and knowing exactly what that meant.
“The shot should be clean, assuming Pembroke's intelligence is accurate.” His eyes met mine. “Is there any reason to doubt his work?”
“No, sir.” My voice came out flat. Professional. “Pembroke's the best we have.”
“He is. Which is why I need you to understand something.” Finch sat down on the edge of my bed without asking, a breach of protocol that startled me more than the mission itself.
“This target isn't just another officer.
He's been coordinating U-boat movements in the Mediterranean for the past eight months.
Every convoy we've lost in that theatre, every ship that went down with all hands, traces back to intelligence he's been feeding to their submarine commanders.”
He rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger, the gesture of a man running on too little sleep and too much responsibility.
“We've been hunting him for six months. Six months of intercepted messages that arrived too late, decoded intelligence that led nowhere.
Pembroke cracked in a day what our best people couldn't crack in half a year.” Finch looked up at me.
“If we miss this window, he disappears. New codes, new location, new months of watching men drown because we couldn't find him fast enough.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Do you?” His voice sharpened, then softened again. “I'm not questioning your competence, Hale. Your record speaks for itself. But this mission matters in ways that most don't. Success means we cripple their Mediterranean operations for months. Failure means...” He didn't finish. Didn't need to.
“I won't fail, sir.”
Finch studied me for a long moment. “You'll receive detailed briefing materials this afternoon. Study them. Memorise them. Be ready.”
“Yes, sir.”
He stood, moved toward the door, then stopped with his hand on the frame. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its official edge.
“This mission is voluntary, Sergeant. Technically. If you're not fit for it, now is the time to say so. No judgment, no mark on your record. I'll find another way.”
Voluntary. The word hung between us. We both knew it wasn't really a choice. But the fact that he'd offered, that he'd made it clear I could refuse without consequence, meant something.
“I'm fit, sir.”
“I hope so.” He turned back, and his expression was almost gentle.
“The sirens last night. I heard reports that you were seen struggling. On the ground, hands over your ears.” He held up a hand before I could speak.
“I'm not accusing you of weakness. God knows we've all had moments like that.
But I need to know if there's something that might affect your performance in the field.”
“There isn't, sir. Just a bad moment. It won't happen again.”
“It might. That's the nature of what we carry.” Finch's voice was quiet, almost kind.
“I spent three months after the Somme unable to hear a car backfire without diving for cover.
Thought I was going mad. Thought I'd never be useful again.” He held my gaze.
“I was wrong. But it took time, and it took people who understood.
If you need that time, Hale, tell me now.
Not because you're weak, but because I'd rather delay the mission than lose a good man to something that could have been prevented.”
The admission stunned me. Finch, with his rigid posture and his cold eyes, confessing to the same demons that haunted me. Offering not judgment but understanding.
“I appreciate that, sir. Truly. But I can do this. I need to do this.”
He nodded slowly. “Then do it. And come back alive.” Something that might have been a smile ghosted across his face.
“Pembroke would never forgive me if I sent you out and you didn't return.
And frankly, I don't want to deal with a grieving cryptanalyst. They're difficult enough when they're happy.”
It was a joke. Finch had made a joke. About Art, no less.
“I'll do my best not to inconvenience you, sir.”
“See that you don't.” He opened the door, paused. “Hale. For what it's worth, I wouldn't have chosen you for this if I didn't believe you could do it. You're the best marksman we have. Maybe the best I've ever seen. Whatever else is going on in your head, that skill is still there. Trust it.”
He left without waiting for a response, and I stood in my cold room listening to his footsteps fade down the corridor.
The mission briefing would arrive in a few hours. A target who'd sent hundreds of men to watery graves. A shot that could change the course of the Mediterranean campaign. A chance to be useful again, to be more than a broken soldier shuffling through guard duty.
And underneath it all, the knowledge that Art had made this possible. Had cracked the code that led us here. Had given me the intelligence I needed to do the one thing I was good at.
I picked up the photograph of my family, looked at their faces. Mum with her worried eyes. Dad with his stiff pride. Rose grinning. Alfie squinting against the sun.
I'd come back to them. I'd come back to Art.
The afternoon shift found me walking the perimeter with Whitmore. We moved through the treeline in comfortable silence, checking fence integrity, scanning for anything out of place.
“Sergeant.” Whitmore's voice was low, alert. “Movement. Two o'clock.”
I followed his gaze. Through the bare branches, maybe fifty yards out, a figure moved along the fence line. Wrong posture. Wrong pace. Not one of ours.
“Stay here,” I murmured. “Cover the retreat path. If this goes sideways, get back to the main gate and raise the alarm.”
“Shouldn't I come with you?”
“No. If there's more than one, I need eyes on my back.” I drew my sidearm, checking the chamber by feel. “Don't shoot unless you have to. And don't shoot me.”
“Wouldn't dream of it, Sarge.”
I moved forward, using the trees for cover, every sense sharpened to crystal clarity. The figure was still there, crouched near a section of fence where the wire had sagged. Doing something with his hands. Cutting, maybe. Or planting something.
Twenty yards. Close enough to see details. Male, dark coat, civilian clothes. Tool in his hand, working at the fence.
Not a lost kitchen worker this time. This was deliberate.
“Stop!” My voice cut through the cold air. “Hands where I can see them!”
The man's head snapped toward me. For a fraction of a second, our eyes met.
Then he ran.
I was after him before conscious thought could interfere, legs pumping through snow that dragged at my boots, closing the distance with every stride. He was fast, but I was faster, driven by training and instinct and the absolute certainty that I couldn't let him escape.
He reached into his coat.
I tackled him before he could draw whatever he was reaching for. We hit the ground hard, snow exploding around us, and then it was close combat, the kind of brutal efficiency they'd drilled into me until it became second nature.
He fought back. Harder than expected, trained, not some amateur caught in the wrong place. An elbow caught my ribs, driving the air from my lungs. I took the hit, used the momentum to roll, came up with my knee on his chest and my forearm across his throat.
“Don't move.” I pressed harder, cutting off his air. “Don't bloody move.”
He thrashed, tried to throw me off. My ribs screamed where he'd hit me, but I held position, increasing pressure until his struggles weakened.
“Who sent you?” I demanded. “Who do you work for?”
No answer. Just hatred in his eyes, the kind that came from ideology rather than circumstance.
His hand moved toward his pocket again. I saw the glint of metal, reacted without thinking, slamming his arm against the frozen ground until his fingers opened and a knife skittered across the snow.
“Whitmore!” I shouted. “Get over here! Now!”
Footsteps crunching through snow. Whitmore appeared, rifle raised, face pale but steady.
“Bind his hands. Use his belt if you have to.”
Together we secured the prisoner, and I finally allowed myself to feel the damage. My ribs ached with every breath. Blood trickled from somewhere on my forehead, warm against the cold. When I touched it, my fingers came away red.
“You're hurt,” Whitmore said.
“I'll live. Get him to Finch. Tell him we've got a saboteur. I want to know who he is and who sent him before the hour's out.”
“What about you?”
“I said I'll live.” I wiped blood from my eyes. “Go. Now.”