Chapter 21 Carry You
TWENTY-ONE
CARRY YOU
TOM
Ihad the guard detail assembled on the range, fourteen men and three women ranging from career military to local volunteers who'd never fired anything more dangerous than a hunting rifle.
This lot was going to defend against German bombers and potential ground infiltration.
Christ.
“Right,” I said, voice carrying across the cold morning air. “I'm told you're all qualified on basic firearms. We're going to find out if that's true or if you've all been lying on your assessments.”
Nervous laughter. Good. Nervous meant alert.
“Starting today, this estate is a potential target. Which means every person on guard duty needs to be able to identify threats, engage if necessary, and not shoot our own people by accident.” Pointed at the range.
“Those targets downrange represent anyone who shouldn't be here. Your job is to hit them fast and accurate before they can do damage. Questions?”
A young private raised his hand. “Sarge, we've not had combat training. Most of us signed up for rear-echelon security.”
“And now rear-echelon security means being ready to defend against enemy action.
War doesn't care what you signed up for.” Picked up a rifle from the equipment table, checked the action automatically.
“I'm going to demonstrate what standard should look like.
Then you're all going to try matching it. Fair?”
Moved to the firing line, sighted downrange at the targets set at varying distances. Standard procedure would be methodical demonstration, maybe hitting three or four to show proper technique.
But standard wouldn't scare them into taking this seriously.
So I did what I'd done for years. Let muscle memory take over. Let training and battle experience transform me into the thing I'd been built to be.
First target at fifty yards, centre mass. Fired. Hit.
Second target at seventy-five, smaller profile. Fired. Hit.
Third at one hundred, partially obscured. Fired. Hit.
Kept going. Smooth, controlled, each shot placed exactly where I intended. No hesitation. No wasted movement. Just the rifle and the target and the space between where physics and skill intersected.
Demonstrated shooting from prone position. From kneeling. From standing with hasty sight picture. Hit moving targets. Hit targets in poor light. Hit targets at distance that made the guards murmur and shift uncomfortably.
By the time I lowered the rifle, they were staring at me like I'd grown a second head.
“That's the standard,” I said calmly. “I don't expect you to match it today. But I expect you to work toward it. Because if we come under attack, hesitation gets people killed. Missed shots get people killed. Panic gets people killed.” Made eye contact with each of them. “Questions?”
Silence. Good silence. Respect mixed with healthy fear.
“Right. First group, take positions. We're running drills until you can hit targets consistently or until your fingers freeze off. Whichever comes first.”
Spent the next two hours drilling basics. Proper stance. Sight picture. Breathing control. Trigger discipline. The fundamentals that separated people who waved guns around from people who actually hit what they aimed at.
Some were hopeless. Flinched at every shot, couldn't group rounds worth a damn, clearly terrified of the weapons they'd been issued.
Others showed promise. Natural steadiness. Ability to follow instruction. The kind of raw material that could be shaped into competent defenders given enough time and pressure.
Wasn't kind about it. Couldn't afford to be. Barked corrections. Pointed out mistakes with the bluntness of someone who'd seen what happened when mistakes occurred in combat. Pushed them harder than they were comfortable with because discomfort in training meant survival in action.
I was in the middle of correcting Davies's grip when movement at the edge of the range caught my attention.
Ruth. Moving fast, coat flapping open despite the cold, face tight with something that made my stomach drop before she'd said a single word.
“Sergeant Hale.” Her voice carried across the range, cutting through the sound of gunfire. “I need to speak with you. Now.”
Something in her tone made me hand my rifle to Whitmore without hesitation. “Continue the drill. I want everyone through at least three more rotations before you break.”
“Yes, Sarge.”
I crossed to Ruth, and the closer I got, the worse she looked. Pale beneath her olive skin. Eyes red-rimmed. Hands shaking slightly where they gripped her coat closed.
“What's happened?”
“It's Arthur.” Her voice dropped, barely audible over the distant crack of rifle fire. “Finch called him in this morning. Some kind of interrogation. He's been suspended from all work, confined to his billet.” She swallowed hard. “They took his notebook. The black one he carries everywhere.”
The world tilted. I grabbed Ruth's arm to steady myself, though I wasn't sure which of us needed the support more.
“When?”
“Hours ago. I only just found out because Noor saw him being escorted across the grounds.” Ruth's jaw tightened. “There's a guard outside his door, Tom. They're treating him like a prisoner.”
“Have you seen him? Talked to him?”
“They wouldn't let me near. Said he's not permitted visitors.” Her eyes met mine, fierce and frightened. “But you're security. You have clearance they don't. And he needs someone right now. I've never seen him look like that. Not in three years.”
“Like what?”
“Broken.”
The word hit like a bullet to the chest. I was moving before I'd consciously decided to, boots eating up the frozen ground between the range and the staff quarters where Art's room was located.
Ruth kept pace beside me. “What are you going to do?”
“Whatever I have to.”
“Tom.” She grabbed my arm, pulled me to a stop. “Be careful. Finch is suspicious of both of you. If you go charging in there looking like you're about to commit murder, you'll only make things worse.”
“I don't care.”
“You should. For Arthur's sake if not your own.” Her grip tightened. “He needs you calm. Steady. He needs the Tom who holds his hand by the lake, not the one who just terrified a dozen soldiers on the range.”
She was right. I knew she was right. But the thought of Art alone and afraid, his notebook gone, his world crumbling around him while I stood here talking about being careful...
“I'll be calm,” I said. “But I'm going to him. Right now.”
Ruth released my arm. “Good. And Tom? Whatever happens in that room, whatever he tells you, remember that he's been carrying this alone for hours. He's going to need you to be strong enough for both of you.”
I nodded and kept walking.
The guard outside Art's door was young, barely out of training, and he straightened nervously when he saw me approaching.
“Sergeant Hale. Mr Pembroke isn't permitted visitors.”
“I'm not a visitor. I'm his security escort.” Kept my voice flat, authoritative. “Captain Finch assigned me to monitor his welfare. I'm here to conduct a welfare check.”
“I wasn't told about any welfare check.”
“You're being told now.” Stepped closer, used every inch of my height advantage. “Open the door, Private. Or I'll open it myself and explain to Finch why his guard couldn't follow a direct order from a superior.”
The private's throat bobbed. He was scared of me. Good. Let him be scared.
“Five minutes,” he said finally, reaching for his keys. “And I'll need to report this.”
“Report whatever you like.”
He unlocked the door and stepped aside. I pushed through before he could change his mind.
The room was small, cramped, barely enough space for a bed and a wardrobe and a tiny washstand. Grey light filtered through the single window, casting everything in shades of ash and shadow.
Art was on the bed.
Not sitting. Not lying down properly. Curled on his side with his knees drawn up, arms wrapped around himself, shirt half-unbuttoned and hanging loose.
His shoes were on the floor where he'd kicked them off.
His jacket was crumpled in the corner like he'd thrown it there.
His hair was a disaster, pushed back from his face in wild tangles.
And he was crying.
Not the quiet tears I'd seen before, the ones he could control and hide and pretend away. These were the ugly kind. The kind that came from somewhere deep and broken. His whole body shook with them, shoulders heaving, breath coming in ragged gasps that sounded like they hurt.
“Art.”
His head came up. Red eyes, swollen and wet. Face blotchy with grief. Snot and tears mixing on his cheeks because he hadn't bothered to wipe them away.
“Tom.” His voice cracked on my name. “You shouldn't be here. The guard...”
“I don't care about the guard.” Crossed the room in two strides, sat on the edge of the bed, pulled him upright and into my arms before I could think about whether it was safe or wise or anything except necessary.
He came apart against me.
The crying intensified, became something raw and animal, sounds I'd only heard from men who'd lost everything.
He clutched at my jacket like I was the only solid thing in a world that had turned to water.
His face pressed into my neck, tears soaking into my collar, and I held him while he shattered.
“He took it,” Art gasped between sobs. “Finch. He took my notebook. My Black Book. Everything I've ever. Everything about you, about us, about what I feel. It's all in there. Coded but he'll crack it. He'll find everything and then we're both...”
“Shh.” Pulled him closer, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other pressed flat against his spine. “I know. Ruth told me.”
“I tried to stop him. Tried to refuse. But he just took it. Pulled it right out of my pocket like it was nothing. Like three years of my life meant nothing.” His voice broke completely.
“It was Bea's. She made it for me. Stitched my initials inside.
And now Finch has it and he's going to read it and he's going to know and I can't. I can't breathe. I can't...”