The Unsung Hero by Suzanne Brockmann

Author:Suzanne Brockmann
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Romance
ISBN: 9780345464279
Publisher: Ballantine Books of Canada
Published: 2009-05-18T05:28:44+00:00

Chapter 12

10 August

IT HAD BEEN a very bad night.

The pain had kept rousing Charles from a deep sleep, and the fact that he had kept the light on had woken him up the rest of the way.

He’d been sleeping with the light on, like a scared four-year-old, because without it, he’d been certain he could see the dark shape of Death in the shadows.

Waiting for him. Sitting silently in the rocking chair in the corner of his room.

Charles had decided last night that he hated knowing he was dying. He’d wished at least a thousand times he hadn’t gone to see that prepubescent child in a doctor’s white coat who only pretended he was old enough to shave.

Of course, if he hadn’t gone to see the seemingly twelve-year-old Dr. Grant, he wouldn’t have been given the prescription for the pills that at least took the cutting edge off his pain.

The pills that weren’t working quite so well anymore.

If Charles could have his choice, death would come in a completely unsuspecting flash. One moment he’d be there, and the next—blessedly painlessly—he’d be gone.

He was starting to become a big fan of nuclear annihilation.

At 5:07 A.M., he dragged himself—literally—out of bed. Climbing the stairs up to the attic was a pain in the ass—also literally—but once up there, it took him about four seconds to find what he was looking for.

Even though he hadn’t touched the damned duffel bag in nearly sixty years.

So now here he was, at not yet six A.M., sitting on the deck that overlooked the ocean—his ocean—cleaning the souvenirs he’d brought home with him after the Fifty-fifth had pushed all the way into Germany and crushed Hitler’s army back in ‘45.

Souvenirs. Hah.

A Luger nine millimeter. At nearly two pounds, it was almost too heavy for his illness-weakened arms, but at one time it had fit almost perfectly in his hand. It was in mint condition—well cared for by the German officer who had owned it previously.

But the Luger, as sought after by collectors as it was, had no value to Charles—not compared to the beat-up Walther PPK he’d also brought back to the States. It was lighter than the Luger, smaller, easier to carry concealed beneath clothing. But unlike the Luger, it wasn’t handmade. Side by side, the Luger was a work of art, the Walther no more than a functional tool of destruction.

But the Walther had belonged to Cybele. She’d touched it, held it, worn it beneath her clothes, close to the warmth of her skin. She’d taken it from the wreckage of a downed German plane, off the body of a German Luftwaffe officer, long before Charles had met her. She’d given it to him when . . .

Christ. He didn’t want to think about any of that.

He’d wasted a lot of money shipping these guns home. Souvenirs. Bah. He’d put them into the attic right away, after he’d returned. He didn’t need—didn’t want—to remember anything at all about the time he’d spent in France.

But lately, he’d been unable to think of much else.

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