Shadow Ritual Read Free Page A

General Wenck’s Ninth German Army, which was retreating westward toward American lines, was supposed to control this zone. Le Guermand realized that the rout had occurred more quickly than they had thought.
    He had to get out of this mess.
    A Russian soldier appeared from behind a bush. He took up position in front of the truck. Le Guermand accelerated and ran the man over. A concert of bullets whistled through the air. A projectile hit Le Guermand in the shoulder, and blood spurt all over the steering wheel. Le Guermand howled, and an acid taste filled his mouth.
    He glanced in the rearview mirror to check on the rest of the convoy three hundred yards behind him. One vehicle was on fire, and Russian soldiers were already climbing into the others.
    He bit his lip. The crates couldn’t fall into enemy hands. He pressed hard on the gas pedal, and the truck sped along a muddy lane toward the dark forest.
    His heart was pounding. He didn’t have much time. The Reds would catch up and kill him slowly, making him pay for all the atrocities the Germans had committed.
    One of the trucks exploded, giving him some breathing room.
    He raced along, hit a rut, and swerved, nearly losing control. But he managed to right the vehicle. He would need at least a minute to reach the woods. He allowed himself a bit of hope. No one was behind him.
    He let out a yelp of victory when he reached the first trees standing guard over the forest. The truck bounced over another rut, and Le Guermand grimaced in pain. The blood was pounding in his head, but there was no stopping. Those damned Ruskies would never take him alive.
    The truck careened past the trees, no Russians in sight. Le Guermand chanted to himself as the sunlight disappeared behind the thick branches. Maybe he would get out of this alive.
    Then he saw it. A gigantic tree trunk was blocking the track just yards in front of him. He slammed on the brakes, skidding and slipping on the mud until the weight of his cargo shifted and the vehicle tipped over. The truck started rolling down a hill covered with emerald-colored ferns.
    The descent seemed to last an eternity.
    Helpless, Obersturmbannführer Le Guermand gazed at the branches slapping against the windshield like wild animals clawing the vehicle.
    Then, by some miracle, the slope flattened out, and the battered truck came to a stop in what looked like a muddy creek.
    Le Guermand’s head hit the steering wheel, but he didn’t feel any pain. He had slipped into a kind of trance on the edge of madness. Everything around him was dark. The truck had slammed into a rocky bank covered with blackish moss. Only a few rays of sunlight could make their way into this dark chasm.
    There was no noise. Nothing but a heavy, wet silence.
    He managed to climb out of the cab, his head spinning and his legs shaking. Blood was spurting in fits from his temple and dripping down his face and neck. He was slipping in and out of consciousness, but he was still standing, and a survival instinct was deeply embedded in his muscles.
    He walked around the truck and climbed into the back. If he was going to die here, he wanted to know why. What was in those damned crates?
    And what was that sickly sweet smell? He looked down and saw that bullets had ripped open a can of motor oil, and the dark liquid was spilling between the crates. He took two steps to retrieve the can and slipped. He reached out to keep himself from falling. He felt something hard, but soft too. And sticky. It was a bullet-ridden face. He pulled his hand away and retched.
    Gathering his last strength, Le Guermand sat down next to one of the crates. He picked up the assault rifle next to the body and started hacking at the top.
    His vision was blurry. His brain wasn’t getting enough blood. In a burst of rage, he gave the crate a final blow, which broke the oak planks apart.
    Wood shards and a bundle of old papers landed on his lap.
    Papers. Nothing but stupid pieces of paper.
    His mouth went