He grabbed one of her arms, pulling it up, but the maelstrom twisted and turned, and then the girl started to scream as she felt herself being dragged from her mother.

Cook felt the girl finally slide off him. His eye was watering and his nose was sore from where she had smacked him hard in the face. He gasped a breath and felt Lotte jerk the pistol again, trying to pull it free from his grip.

The battle wasn’t over yet.

Lotte tried to twist the pistol as Cook worked the muzzle out of his ribs, both hands still clamped around the slide and hammer, clinging on for dear life, desperately squinting down to see where the gun was going as they wrestled it between them.

Lotte dropped a shoulder and Cook thought he would overbalance; she ducked in low at his hip and then twisted. He felt the pistol slipping in his hands as he looked toward King for help again.

Help wasn’t forthcoming.

FRANK KING WAS suffering his own private nightmare with Anja. Punches, shin kicks, scratches, and shrieks rattled around him as he dropped his chin into his chest and tried to grab at her free arm.

Anja was still screaming, higher now, painful to the ears, setting King’s teeth on edge. He couldn’t take any more; he gave up trying to grab her arm and pulled back his hand to slap her face.

He stopped when he heard the shot.

Time stood still.

Everyone froze for the briefest of moments as their ears rang and they waited for sense to return.

King looked at Cook and then at the tailor, who hadn’t moved throughout the entire pantomime. Cook suddenly started to struggle again, the respite from the shock of the shot over. He grunted, jerked, then grunted again before he finally managed to rip the Walther from Lotte and point it up at the ceiling.

“You okay?” King asked.

Cook nodded, his face pale. He looked at Lotte, who took a half step back, the fight gone along with the pistol.

Anja started to cry. She tried to move toward her mother, who stared watery eyed at King and then at her daughter.

“Don’t do anything stupid and your daughter can come to you, understand?” King said in his leaden German.

Lotte nodded, and King allowed Anja to go to her. She held her mother close, her head buried in the fur coat Lotte had worn against the cold weather that morning.

It took everyone except Lotte by surprise when she slowly sank to the floor, Anja desperately trying to hold her up.

“Mama?” said Anja, confused.

Lotte’s head lolled and Cook dropped to his knees next to her, quickly pulling open her coat. Just below Lotte’s groin, blood was leaching out, staining her white dress.

Anja moaned at the sight of the blood and Lotte looked down, an almost curious expression on her face.

“Oh, no,” Cook said in English as he looked up at King and then quickly lifted the dress to find the wound. “She’s bleeding to death. Fuck, oh fuck, give me a tie.” Cook looked up at the tailor, who meekly stared back.

“Give him a tie!” King shouted at the little man, who suddenly burst to life. He almost ran around the glass display counter and dropped the flap at the back. King watched him grab a handful of brightly colored ties and hankies and toss them over the counter to Cook. The tailor rubbed a dainty pink palm across his forehead and then looked at King.

King stared back, then gave a tiny nod of his head.

The tailor nodded back and swallowed.

King checked on Cook and saw his hand was thick with treacly blood.

“Can you see it?” he leaned forward to get a closer look.

“What?”

“The wound, can you see it?”

Cook didn’t reply.

“I’ll call an ambulance.” The tailor lifted the phone, but King spun around and slammed his hand across the cradle.

“Wait.” King raised a finger and stared deeply into the tailor’s eyes. “Wait,” he repeated quietly.

The tailor took a step back and shot a look at Lotte and Cook. King read the look and sighed inwardly. Things were going from bad to worse.

“How is she?” he asked quietly.

“It’s bad, Frank.” Cook looked up and King thought he saw tears in the younger man’s eyes.

King leaned forward again and looked into Lotte’s face. She looked confused, bewildered by the blood that was sneaking out of her. This really wasn’t what King had planned. He ran his hand through his hair and looked back toward the door before bending down and picking up the gun. He studied the Walther and then lowered it to his side.

“Well?” he asked Cook while looking at the tailor, who stared back silently.

“I’ve found where it went in, but it’s bleeding like a bitch.” Cook looked up and shook his head at King, who sighed and looked away, pondering his options.

“Can you stop it?”

Cook shrugged.

King tapped the Walther against his leg, then looked over his shoulder at the door again.

He squeezed his lips together as he looked down at Cook, the pistol still knocking against his leg as if it were eager to get away from the scene of the crime.

King knew how it felt.

“I’m sorry,” Cook said.

“So am I,” King replied as he looked at the tailor, who slowly started to raise his hands and then gave a slight shake of his head.

“I’ll not say anything. I’m all for the resistance, I swear I’ll not say a word.”

“We’re not the resistance,” King said, just before he shot the tailor dead.

The little man dropped like sand.

King looked down at Cook, Anja, and Lotte, who all stared back, openmouthed.

“Go get the car. Park it on the curb by the door,” King said quietly to Cook.

Cook looked at Anja and then at his bloodstained hand, still gripping the silk necktie tourniquet on Lotte’s leg.

“Go get the car,” King repeated, very quietly.

Cook nodded, looked at Anja again, and then stood up, wiping his hands on his coat.

He stepped over Lotte and hurried past King to get to the car. The bell above the shop door rang brightly after a second or two, causing Anja to lift her head and look at King.

He saw her cheeks were wet, and he licked his lips and felt a thud in his chest.

“Why?” Anja said softly in English, her hand now holding the tie tightly around her mother’s leg.

King could feel his own pulse pounding in his neck, and he looked at the dead tailor on the floor. He opened his mouth, but the first word caught in his throat and he had to cough it free.

“This will be okay. You just need to do as you are told. Believe me, you’ll both be okay.”

“Just go.