He watched the eyes of one of the policemen, the younger one, flicking from the car to Rossett and then back again.

These men weren’t going to wait.

Damn them.

Rossett tightened his grip on the rifle, pulling it into his shoulder, ready for the kick when it came.

The young policeman took a quick step to the left, ducking slightly as he went, half turning, right hand rising to the leather holster high on his belt.

Too high for a quick draw.

Rossett fired through the door, the bullet slamming through two sheets of thick glass. Spinning, off target, the bullet was still close enough to catch the policeman high on the shoulder, half turning him as he ducked.

Rossett didn’t bother taking time to work the bolt for another round; he threw the rifle into the door to jam it and shook his Webley free from his pocket. The young policeman had hit the floor, showered in glass, scrabbling to get clear and out of sight of Rossett and his Webley.

The second, older policeman stared at the pistol, mouth open, hands half raised, as Rossett took aim at his chest. The policeman didn’t move as the car started behind Rossett; he just stared at the gun.

Koehler shouted for Rossett to get into the car, so he took a pace backward, Webley still high. He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw that Koehler was holding his Mauser, pointing it at the revolving door. Rossett walked quickly around the car, checking up and down the street.

A few curtains were flicking on either side of the road. A curious concierge appeared, nervously watching them from a building farther up the street, squinting through the falling snow, one hand shielding his eyes.

Rossett opened the passenger door as a bullet slammed into the front of the car twelve inches from where he stood. He felt the door handle twitch in his fingers as the car shook from the impact. His reflexes caused him to dip his head as another round fizzed past. Rossett felt the shock wave as the bullet missed him and ricocheted off the building behind. He ducked, looking for whoever had fired the shot, hoping to mark a target before the shooter could fire again.

He spun, checking windows, unwilling to get in the car until he was certain he wouldn’t be a sitting duck.

“Come on!” Koehler shouted, but still Rossett spun, searching for the shooter.

Another shot.

Rossett felt the car buck next to him and turned once more, looking for the shooter, wanting to shoot back.

He looked toward the door of the building they’d just left, but neither policeman was in view. The sentry outside was still on the ground, stomach in the snow.

Koehler gunned the engine.

“John!”

Rossett held his ground, looking left and right, up and down the street. He’d once been in the passenger seat of a car when the driver had been shot dead traveling at thirty miles an hour; it wasn’t an experience he wanted to go through again.

There, top of the street. A soldier, crouching down near some railings about seventy yards ahead. Rifle poking round the corner, not wanting to expose himself. Rossett guessed he was probably a sentry from another German officer’s apartment block who’d heard the shot and the smashing glass and come to investigate.

“We need to turn around. Shooter ahead,” Rossett said as he got into the car.

“Fuck’s sake.”

Koehler revved the engine, slammed the car into reverse, and started a J-­turn away from the threat.

The two policemen opened up with their pistols through the revolving door, closer than the sentry but firing fast and loose.

“You might want to get a move on,” Rossett said quietly.

Koehler eased off on the accelerator as the rear wheels found some grip, then the car pulled away from the curb.

The younger policeman appeared at the top of the steps and Rossett aimed at him with the Webley, causing him to duck back out of sight.

Finally the car made its way across the road, turning away from the soldier on the corner, who fired again, this time hitting the back door on the driver’s side. The bullet passed through the thin metal before lodging in the dashboard, missing Koehler’s arm by half an inch. Neither he nor Rossett registered it; both men had been in combat enough times to know that the ones that missed didn’t matter.

They’d worry about it later, if later ever came.

The two policemen in the apartment block opened fire again. Window glass shattered around them and Rossett involuntarily ducked, then returned fire at the doorway with the Webley. Its mighty boom deafened him as the car finally started to pull away down the street.

As their speed picked up, Rossett watched out of what remained of the back window as the policemen, and the now distant sentry, ran into the middle of the street still firing. One round pinged off the inside of the roof, into the back of Rossett’s seat. He felt the heavy thud and for a moment thought he had been shot.

The car skidded in the snow around the corner and Koehler slowed slightly before looking across at Rossett and shaking his head.

“Jesus.” Koehler whistled and took a deep breath. His face broke out in a broad smile.

Rossett just stared blankly back at him.

Rossett had seen it a thousand times, the laughter of soldiers who’d just survived by the skin of their teeth. Men rejoicing because they’d lived to fight and die another day.

He’d once worried that he never experienced that postbattle euphoria. He fought, he finished fighting, and then he fought again.

No emotion, no terror, no rush of adrenaline, no glory.

Just do the job, kill or be killed, and if you are still alive, do it again.

Koehler finally spoke, his voice almost level again.

“We need another car; we can’t drive around in this thing full of holes.”

Rossett didn’t reply as he removed the spent cartridges from the Webley, replacing them with fresh rounds. He clicked the revolver shut and looked over his shoulder again before settling into his seat more comfortably.

“Pull over.”

Koehler did as he was told. The car slid the last few feet into the curb. Rossett got out and jogged across to the line of cars parked on the opposite side of the street. In the distance the sound of police-­car bells rang out as they made their way to Koehler’s apartment block.