An Army of One: A John Rossett Novel by Tony Schumacher

Author:Tony Schumacher [Schumacher, Tony]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Thrillers, Historical, Suspense, General
ISBN: 9780062499875
Google: KGWnDQAAQBAJ
Amazon: 0062499874
Publisher: William Morrow
Published: 2017-08-29T05:00:00+00:00

It was dark. The corridor was much longer than Rossett had imagined it to be. There were doors running down both sides, and nearly all of them opened onto rooms filled with nothing but damp and dirt.

The wooden floor creaked with every step, while up on the ceiling ghost train cobwebs hung low enough to float in the draft made by the passage of people. Rossett walked maybe sixty feet before they came to a staircase, set at a right angle, which led down to even deeper darkness.

Cavanagh stopped and waited for him.

Somewhere to Rossett’s right he could hear water dripping into what sounded like a tin bucket. He looked down the staircase, then at Cavanagh.

“I like what you’ve done with the place.”

Cavanagh smiled.

“We don’t normally let people take weapons down there. Will you be careful with yours?”

“I’m always careful with guns.”

“So I’ve heard.” Cavanagh leaned out over the top stair and called down. “Norman?”

A second passed, then a voice called back.

“Yeah?”

“Two of us—coming down.”

“Yeah.”

Cavanagh set off, and Rossett followed.

It got colder.

The kind of cold that you could feel burrowing into you as you moved through it.

A lamp clicked on.

Twenty watts, but bright enough to make Rossett squint and hold up a hand.

Norman was seated behind a cube of sandbags.

He was well wrapped up against the cold, with a fur hat pulled down so far it would have reached his waist if it weren’t for the two coats he was wearing. On top of the sandbags was a thermos flask, a mess tin, and a pump-action shotgun, which was pointing at Rossett.

“Is this the copper?” Norman’s accent was heavy with phlegm and almost as thick as his coats.

“Yeah,” Cavanagh replied.

“Is he going in the cell?”

“Yes.” Cavanagh again.

“Is he coming out again?”

“Yes,” said Rossett.

Cavanagh nodded confirmation, so Norman shifted the shotgun a few inches and tossed a bunch of keys across to him.

“You take him in, I’m havin’ a sarnie.”

Rossett looked at Cavanagh.

“A sandwich,” Cavanagh said.

Rossett looked back at Norman and saw a thick doorstep of bread and cheese in his hand already heading for his mouth.

Rossett followed Cavanagh. Eventually they were in a low cellar space. Cavanagh stopped at a door. It was studded bare metal, rusted red, but still sounding solid as a fumble and jangle of keys got it unlocked.

Cavanagh looked at Rossett.

“It looks bad, but they are fed, watered, and unharmed.”

“Just open the door.”

“You have to understand, whatever it seems like, the Germans treat our people much worse.”

“You don’t have to tell me how the Germans treat people. Just open the door.”

Cavanagh did as he was told.

Rossett knew the hinges were going to grind and squeak even before the door started moving. When it was finally open, he stood in the doorway, staring into the bare-bulb half-light.

There were four men in the cell. They were all lying on thin straw mattresses, which in turn lay on military-style cots.

Neumann was lying farthest away from the door.

The bucket in the corner made Rossett’s nose wrinkle from twenty feet away.

“You’ll have to go in if you want to speak to him.

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