Wolfsangel by Perrat Liza

Author:Perrat, Liza [Perrat, Liza]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Perrat Publishing
Published: 2013-10-01T06:00:00+00:00

27

The police motorcycle caught up with us in less than a minute. I kept my head bent low, not daring to glance through the rear window.

Our driver sped up as we left the narrow streets of the old district of Lyon and reached the wider road that headed westward. The motorcycle clung to our tail.

‘Oh God, oh God,’ I kept saying in a panicked kind of whimper.

The two “Gestapo” agents didn’t say a word but the driver’s knuckles blanched as he gripped the steering wheel.

I stole a quick glance behind. The motorcycle was pulling out into the middle of the road to overtake us. So close it was, I could see the determination in the rider’s eyes. He drew level with us, then his eyes widened for less than a second as an oncoming van slammed head-on into the motorcycle.

I shrieked, the blood pulsing hard in my head, as our vehicle swerved to avoid the van. I snatched only a glimpse of the horrific smash littering the road behind.

‘That got rid of him, at least,’ the German-accented agent said with a smirk.

As we continued west, towards the Monts du Lyonnais, passing through familiar villages, I took in great gulps of air. I was still unable to utter a single word. We were soon driving through the autumn golds and crimsons of the foothills, violet fringes of heather lapping the slopes. We passed the Julien-sur-Vionne turn-off, then the road that led to Lucie, and when we’d climbed the hill to the village of Saint Martin-en-Haut, the driver veered off onto a dirt track.

‘You know why this is a good place to hide people?’ the driver said to me.

I shook my head. ‘No idea.’

‘Because the Boche absolutely hate driving up hills. They avoid coming here at all costs. Stupid pigs.’

The men laughed as the Traction bumped along the rutted track and I thought of how Marie-Félicité’s convent, too, stood on a hill.

We stopped in front of a small, tumbledown farm at the end of the stony, isolated track. I recognised Dr. Laforge’s car parked beside a chestnut tree. The ambulance van was there too, Pierre and the other fake agents unloading the stretchers and carrying Patrick and Olivier inside.

I leapt from the Traction as Père Emmanuel, Dr. Laforge and Jacqueline appeared from the cottage with a man and a woman. From the man’s blue overalls, and the woman’s apron, it was obvious they were the farmer and his wife.

‘Well done, Gabrielle,’ Dr. Laforge said. ‘Good work, everybody.’

‘This is my brother, Georges,’ Père Emmanuel said, introducing the farmer. ‘And his wife, Perrine.’

‘Come in, quickly,’ Perrine said, taking my arm and ushering me up the crumbling porch steps. ‘You look fagged out. What a time you must’ve had.’

‘I’m all right, thank you,’ I said. ‘I’d just like to see the boys … to take care of them.’

I followed the woman into a dim hallway, leaving the others murmuring outside with the agents.

Perrine lit a candle and I saw we were in the kitchen, the

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