The SS men poured down the steps like channels of filthy, muddy water and pooled together in the little courtyard that lay before the church door, creating a kind of honor guard for the four civilians who stepped from the half-track to join them. From the shadows where he lay, Hall saw the old monk try to bar their way. He was pushed into the arms of the waiting soldiers and thrown against the wall. Hall heard him speak to the senior officer, the one with the dagger on his belt and the medal at his neck, who had accompanied the men in civilian clothes. The monk held out a bejeweled gold cross, offering it to the soldier. Hall couldn’t understand German, but it was clear the monk was trying to convince the officer that there was more where that came from, if he wanted it. The officer said something curt in reply, then he and the civilians entered the church. Hall heard some shouting, and a short burst of gunfire. A voice was raised and Hall discerned some words that he did understand: an order to cease fire. He wasn’t sure how long that would last. Once the Germans got whatever they had come for, they would leave nobody alive to talk about it.

Hall began working his way backward, moving through the darkness and into the woods, until he was facing the half-track. Its passenger door was open, and there was a soldier sitting at the wheel, watching what was taking place in the courtyard. Hall unsheathed his bayonet and crawled to the very edge of the road. When he was certain that he was out of sight of the other soldiers, he padded across the dirt and pulled himself into the half-track’s cab, staying low all the time. The German sensed him at the last minute, because he turned and seemed about to shout a warning, but Hall’s left hand shot up and caught him under the chin, forcing his mouth closed with a snap while the blade entered below the soldier’s sternum and pierced his heart. The German trembled against the bayonet, then grew still. Hall used the blade to anchor him to his seat before slipping out of the cab and into the back of the half-track. He had a clear view of the soldiers on the right of the steps, and of most of the courtyard, but there were at least three hidden by the wall to the left. He looked to his right and saw Crane peering at him from a copse of bushes. For once, thought Hall, just once, do the right thing, Larry. He signaled with his fingers, indicating to Crane that he should go around the back of the vehicle and through the trees so that he could take out the Germans hidden from Hall.

There was a pause before Crane nodded and started to move.

Larry Crane was trying to light a cigarette, but the damn cigarette lighter had been removed from the Volvo so that smokers would not be encouraged to spoil its imitation new car scent with tobacco smoke. He searched his pockets once again, but his own lighter wasn’t there. He had probably left it at home in his hurry to confront his old buddy the Auto King with the prospect of easy wealth. Now that he thought of it, the unlit cigarette in his mouth tasted a little musty, which led him to suspect that he’d left both cigarettes and lighter in the house and what was now in his mouth was a relic of an old pack that had somehow escaped his notice. He had taken the first jacket he could lay a hand on, and it wasn’t one that he usually wore. It had leather patches on the elbows, for a start, which made him look like some kind of New York Jew professor, and the sleeves were too long. It caused him to feel older and smaller than he was, and he didn’t need that. What he did need was a nicotine boost, and he’d bet a dime that the King hadn’t locked the door to his house after he went inside. Larry figured there would be matches in the kitchen. At worst, he could light up from the stove. Wouldn’t be the first time, although he’d tried it once when he had a couple under his belt and had just about singed his eyebrows off. The right one still grew sort of rangy as a result.

Fuckin Auto King in his nice house with his fat wife, his slick sons, and that whiny daughter of his, looked like she could do with some feeding up and some holding down under a real man. The King didn’t need any more money than he had already, and now he was making his old army buddy squirm on the hook while he thought about whether or not to take the bait. Well, he’d take the bait, whether it sat comfortably with him or not. Larry Crane wasn’t about to let his fingers get broken just because the Auto King was having scruples after the fact. Hell, the old bastard wouldn’t even have a business if it hadn’t been for Larry. They’d have left that monastery poor as when they found it, and Hall’s old age would have been spent scrounging nickels and clipping coupons, not as a respected pillar of the Georgia business community, living in a goddamned mansion in a nice neighborhood. You think they’d still respect you if they found out how you came by the money to buy into that first lot, huh? You bet your ass they wouldn’t. They’d hang you out to dry, you and your bitch wife and all your miserable brood.

Larry was getting nicely stoked up now. It had been a while since he’d let the old blood run free, and it felt good. He wasn’t going to take no shit from the Auto King, not this time, not ever again.

The cigarette moist with poisonous spit, Larry Crane strode into the King’s house to light up.

The officer emerged from the church, flanked by the men in civilian clothing. One of them was carrying the silver box in his hands, while the others had packed the gold into a pair of sacks. Behind them came one of the monks whom Hall and Crane had helped with the shifting of the stone, his arms held behind his back by two SS soldiers. He was forced against the wall to join the abbot and the sentinel. Three monks: that meant one was already dead, and it looked like the rest were about to follow him. The abbot started to make one final plea, but the officer turned his back on him and directed three soldiers to take up position as a makeshift firing squad.

Hall got behind the thirty-seven-millimeter and saw that Crane was at last in place. He counted twelve Germans in his sights. That would leave just a handful more for Crane to deal with, assuming everything went without a hitch. Hall drew a deep breath, placed his hands on the big machine gun, and pulled the trigger.

The burst of noise was deafening in the silence of the night, and the power of the gun shook him as he fired. Centuries-old masonry fragmented as the bullets tore into the monastery, pockmarking the façade of the church and shattering part of the lintel above the door, although by the time they hit the wall they’d passed through half a dozen German soldiers, ripping them apart like they were made of paper. He glimpsed the muzzle flare from Crane’s gun, but he couldn’t hear its report. His ears were ringing, and his eyes were full of dark marionettes in uniform, dancing to the beat of the music he was creating. He watched the side of the officer’s head disappear and saw one of the civilians bucking against the wall, dead but still jerking with each shot that hit him. He raked the courtyard and steps until he was certain that everyone in his sights was dead, then stopped firing. He was drenched in sweat and rain, and his legs felt weak.

He climbed down as Crane advanced from the bushes, and the two soldiers looked upon their work. The courtyard and steps ran red, and fragments of tissue and bone seemed to sprout from the cracks like night blooms. One of the monks at the wall was dead, killed perhaps by a ricochet, guessed Hall, or a burst of gunfire from a dying German. The sacks of church ornaments lay upon the ground, some of their contents lying scattered beside them. Nearby rested the silver box. While Hall watched, the senior cleric reached for it. Hall could now see that he was bleeding from the face, injured by fragments of flying stone. The other monk, the sentinel, was already trying to replace the gold in the sacks. Neither said a word to the Americans.