It danced on the wall of the hallway, throwing barely there shadows that made it hard for him to focus.

“Run for the stairs. I’ll cover you,” he called quietly.

“I can’t—­she’ll have a clear shot.”

“We haven’t got time for this, Eric. Either run now or stay here and wait for the Germans.”

There was silence.

The candle danced and King touched his scalp again.

Suddenly Cook broke from the front room, head down; he hit the top of the stairs flat out, slamming into the wall. Anja let off a short burst from the machine gun, firing mostly high and wide of Cook, who was shooting back blindly with his Browning pistol.

Cook dropped, scrabbled, and cried out. He half rose and then fell down the stairs toward King, who in turn emptied the last of his bullets at the bedroom wall above him, showering dust and plaster down the stairs behind the floundering Cook.

Cook kept falling to the bottom, half rolled onto the pavement, then turned a hard right away from the front door. He tripped over the resistance soldier on the ground. King dragged him to his feet and along the street away from the flat, only stopping to drop his empty weapon and to pick up the dead man’s Thompson from the snow where it had fallen.

“The girl?” Cook gasped.

King didn’t answer; she was the least of their problems.

 

CHAPTER 14

ANJA CROUCHED DOWN at the end of the bed and listened.

Silence.

She realized that her hand was burning where it was holding the barrel of the Thompson.

She didn’t let go.

She hadn’t heard a sound since her ears had stopped ringing from firing the gun. She’d seen Cook diving for the stairs but didn’t think she’d been quick enough to hit him.

She hoped she had.

She crept forward, listened again, then peeked her head around the doorframe. Nothing. She ducked back again. She waited for a few seconds, chewing her lip, and then looked again, this time down the stairs at the open front door.

She could see the snow on the pavement outside. She sniffed the air, which smelled of smoke.

She remembered her mother’s words: if you get the chance, run.

Whatever might happen next.

She moved forward, gun pointing at the door at the bottom of the stairs. Slowly, crouching, every step placed carefully like a hunter in a forest.

Toes pushing forward first, just as her father had shown her.

She put her foot onto the top step and paused, then slowly, ever so slowly, she took another step, then another, this one slightly quicker.

Closer to the door, closer to her father.

She was halfway down when a head popped around the doorframe and then back out of sight, much too quick for her to react with the gun.

Anja froze, her foot hovering an inch off the step beneath it. The Thompson in her hands rose slowly, pointing at the door. She stepped backward in slow motion, back up the stairs, unsure whether whoever had looked in had seen her in the gloom and the smoke. She took another step, quicker, and then another. The stair creaked, so Anja gave up all pretense at stealth by breaking into a stumbling backward run toward the landing above.

She’d barely made it to the top when the head appeared again, lingering this time. It was still there as she made it into the sanctuary of the bedroom. It was her turn to hide, shoulder to the wall, breathing hard, weapon clutched to her chest.

She turned and looked at the boarded-­up window. She was trapped.

Maybe the ­people who were shooting at King and Cook were still out there? Maybe they could help her?

She looked out again.

The head was there; she couldn’t make out the face looking up, so she leveled the gun, showing her ability to defend herself if she had to.

The head disappeared at the sight of the gun.

“Hey!”

Anja ducked back into the bedroom.

“You up there! Throw out the gun!” An Englishman, shouting in English, not angry, nervous.

Anja rested her head against the wall.

“Come on, it’s the police! Throw it out!”

The voice grew in confidence, assured, used to ­people doing as they were told, and Anja felt an urge to comply.

She didn’t.

She just sneaked another look around the doorframe, then ducked back into the bedroom.

Could she trust the English police?

Her father had told her, time and time again, “The English aren’t our friends, they are our subjects. As long as you are here, be polite, but never trust them. They will turn on you like dogs if you let them.”

Anja didn’t care who the man at the bottom of the stairs said he was. If he tried to come up, she was going to shoot him like a dog.

She hugged the heavy gun to her chest to take the weight off her arms, then took up position next to the landing again, Thompson pointing down the stairs.

“Throw down the gun; don’t make me come up there to get it.”

“I’ll shoot!” Anja heard herself shouting back, her voice high and light with nerves and adrenaline. She coughed to clear her throat in case she had to shout again.

“This is Police Constable Alf Harris! Come on now, love, throw out the gun and come downstairs before you get hurt.” The Englishman held his helmet in the doorway for Anja to see. “Look here, see? I’m a bobby. Come on, throw down that gun before someone gets hurt.”

Anja watched the helmet waving and bit her lip as it disappeared back out of sight. She ducked back into the bedroom. She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t shoot a policeman.

Even an English one.

She looked up at the ceiling searching for a loft hatch or any other means of escape. The ceiling was stubbornly bare: nothing but yellowing paint and a damp patch.

There was a creak on the stairs.

Anja spun and pointed the gun out the bedroom doorway.