The Night Children Read Free

added more if he hadn’t felt the cold steel of a gun against the back of his neck and heard a whisper in his ear, the accent unmistakable:
    “No. It isn’t.”
    *
    “Drop the guns. I will not hesitate, boys, to blow your goddamned heads clean off.”
    Donnie did what he was told. He didn’t think he could hang on to his pistol even if he’d wanted to, the weight of it suddenly unbearable. It thudded into the snow, followed by two rifles. Mike held on to his, looking at whoever was behind Donnie with a sneer on his face.
    “Yeah?” he grunted. “I don’t think so.”
    The pressure on the back of Donnie’s neck increased.
    “I do,” said the voice, little more than a whisper.
    “Drop it,” Donnie ordered. Mike hesitated a moment longer, then let the gun slide from his fingers. “We’re not alone,” Donnie went on, hoping the lie wouldn’t show. “There’s a bunch more of us on the way.”
    “You Yanks,” said the voice, louder now and too high, too musical. “Always the same with your bravado and your shoot-first-ask-questions-later and your gum.” The weapon was lifted from Donnie’s neck, the skin there prickling. “I could hear you chewing from a mile away, and they must be able to smell Juicy Fruit all the way over in Berlin. Turn around, let’s take a look at you.”
    Frowning, Donnie did as he was told, making sure to keep his hands well out from his sides. Standing there was a pilot, dressed in the uniform of the British Royal Air Force. He was wearing a leather flying helmet, and there was a scarf pulled tight around his mouth. He was small, at least six inches shorter than Eddie; painfully thin, too. He was holding a Webley, the pistol enormous in his slender, gloved hands.
    “What’s your name and rank?” he asked.
    “Donnie. Corporal Donnie Brixton.”
    “Which unit are you with?”
    “506th Infantry,” Donnie said after a pause.
    “506th? What’s your nickname?”
    “Why?” asked Mike.
    “So I know you’re not Nazi spies. Your nickname, tell me.”
    “Currahees,” said Donnie.
    “Good.” The pilot lowered his weapon, but he didn’t take his finger from the trigger.
    “What about you?” Donnie asked. “Didn’t think the Brits had any men this far out.”
    “And you were right.” He removed his helmet and loosed a cascade of brown hair, then tugged at the scarf to reveal a face that belonged on the front of Titter magazine. Donnie’s jaw dropped, and the others must have had a similar reaction, because the girl laughed at their expressions, a sound that seemed to make the forest shrink back.
    “Now I can see your gum as well as smell it, thanks, boys.”
    “You’re a woman,” said Mike, picking up his rifle.
    “And you’re a sharp one,” she replied.
    “What are you doing out here?” Donnie asked, collecting his own pistol and holstering it. “Are you alone?”
    She nodded, tucking her weapon into a huge pocket in her jacket.
    “I was escorting a bombing run, heading east, AAs took me down.”
    “But you’re a broad,” said Mike.
    “Your friend there,” she said, leaning in to Donnie and tapping her temple. “Is he shell-shocked? Or just a little slow?”
    “Got to admit it’s a little weird, Corporal,” said Henry. “Out here alone, a woman. How do we know this isn’t a trap?”
    “Yes,” said the girl, her voice laced with sarcasm. “I’m German. The Führer ordered me out here especially to lure down four hopeless American boys, all of whom—presuming, Mr. Brixton, that you are the leader of this ragtag group and you’re a corporal—have attained the superior rank of privates.” She barged between Donnie and Mike, picking up her parachute and shaking it loose. With a deft swirl she wrapped it around her shoulders, tucking it into the collar of her jacket. Then she looped her satchel over her shoulder to hold the improvised cape in place. “The success of the Nazi war effort and the Third Reich depends entirely on me luring you lot into a cunning trap. So come on, follow me.”
    Donnie was speechless. He looked at Mike, who was