The Paris Package by A.W. Hartoin

Author:A.W. Hartoin [Hartoin, A.W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: A.W. Hartoin
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

The wall of the tack room closed behind them with a grinding shudder. Stella felt along the wall, listening to Oliver being dragged in front of her and her own ragged breath.

“Lay him down here,” said Hans. “We’re clear of the door.”

Oliver groaned as the dragging stopped. Then there was a click and a sizzle. Hans stood over Oliver holding a lighter. The glow burned intensely at the center and faded out slowly in softly defined rings like the Madonna’s halo glow. Nicky knelt by Oliver’s side, the soldier’s gun lying at his feet. He pressed a sopping red handkerchief to Oliver’s shoulder and blood ran rivers down his hand soaking his cuff.

“You’ll have to hold the lighter,” Hans said, clicking it off and pressing it against Stella’s chest.

She held the lighter high as Hans had and flicked the wheel with her thumb. She’d seen a million men do it, but the lighter didn’t light. She tried again and again.

“I can’t get it,” she said.

“Give it to me,” said Nicky.

Stella shivered at the feel of his blood-soaked hand on her leg. He stood beside her and took the lighter out of her hand. He flicked it on easily and flooded the hidden corridor with another warm halo.

Hans untied the knotted belt on his smoking jacket. “Help me tie this around his shoulder, Stella.”

“Why?” She asked while easing Oliver onto his side.

Hans slipped the belt under Oliver’s shoulder, looping it under his arm and tying it. “To cut off the blood. It’s called a tourniquet.” He tightened the tie. Oliver’s eyes opened and he barely suppressed a scream before he went limp.

“Tourniquet,” Stella whispered, imitating Hans’ accent.

“You haven’t heard of it?” Han’s sat back and removed the handkerchief, watching as the blood stopped flowing.

“No reason that she should,” said Nicky. “Stella hasn’t been to war.”

Hans glanced up. “But you have?”

Nicky shrugged and the halo bounced up and down in time with another explosion outside. “There are accidents in shipyards. I’ve seen them used. Usually on legs though.”

“You worked in the shipyard?” asked Stella.

“My father required me to start at the bottom. I was nine when I started working for Mr. Short in tools. My job was to collect and hand out chits.”

Stella glanced up at her elegant husband and his expression was as impassive as ever, even with blood and dirt all over him. It appeared that there were things he’d neglected to tell her, too, but she doubted that he’d consider them even. He was a man. She was a woman. Her family wouldn’t think that made a difference, but she was quite sure his would.

“The tourniquet has worked.” Hans replaced the bloody handkerchief and fumbled with his jacket before turning to Stella. “Reach into my pocket. There’s a box. I can’t get it.” He held up his hand, slick with Oliver’s blood.

Stella handed him Abel’s package and felt around inside the damp pocket. She found a slick leather case and pulled it out. Hans wiped his hands on his velvet jacket without much effect and took the box in his blood-soaked hands.

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