Operation Gumtree, Part 4 of 4: The Man with the Silver Sword

The brave men and women of the Office have been hounding the monstrous killer Isaak Gerhardt across Europe and in the Middle East for months, desperate to rescue his captive, the scientist Hermann Geiger, and to avenge the deaths of their comrades. Now, on a small island off the coast of Greece, they have him cornered. In one fell swoop, Operation Gumtree will come to an end.

The four parts of Operation Gumtree have been collected in The Secret Files of Lucky Ford: Operation Arm Breaker, which is now available as a Kindle ebook, in paperback, and as a DRM-free ebook.

The Man with the Silver Sword is the finale of Operation Gumtree. It takes place before The Dragon, the Wolf, and the Maiden and features characters introduced there. Read Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3 first to avoid spoilers.

Content Warnings: Mild Swearing, Violence, Gore, Death, Body Horror, Nazis

THURSDAY MORNING, JUNE 26, 1943
OBSERVATION BUNKER FTZ-26 “BIANCAMARIA”
MASTORÁTIKA, OTHONOI, ITALIAN-OCCUPIED GREECE

Captain Pierre Carbonneau double-checked the detonator's leads, then tucked himself back behind a stone outcropping. He smoothed his wild beard down, steeling his nerves. When he noticed the half-dozen officials staring at him, he pulled it back together. He gave Sandra Hingeberry's shoulder a pat, and she nodded back: the dozen pounds of plastic explosive that she'd affixed to the bunker door was ready to go.

The God-damned Vargulf inside would be scrambled like eggs.

Official First Class Fergus MacLeod was damn-near bouncing with anticipation. He'd been tracking the Vargulf for months, over hundreds of miles. He'd lost friends and he'd killed people. Nazis, but still people. Operation Gumtree's trail had always been a few days too cold to make a difference. But they had caught up. They had found the messages Geiger had secreted away. The people they had lost would be avenged. The man who had made these monsters bulletproof was just inside this door.

Carbonneau began his whispered count-down:

“On my count: trois, duex...”

A black shape, blacker than the Ionian night, bounded from overhead and swiped a crooked claw. Carbonneau's 'un' was replaced by a pained gurgle, and he fell the the ground, gasping and clutching at the ragged remains of his throat. Hingeberry dove atop him, attempting to staunch the sudden crimson flow. It was over in seconds.

“Vargulf!” MacLeod roared. He raised his BAR to gun down the attacking creature, but it was gone into the night as quickly as it had pounced. Shadows slithered between the trees and rocks around them. The monsters were inside their perimeter. The sentries had to be dead: six trained officials, gone in silence.

“Blow it!” Lieutenant James Brookfields shouted. He was in command with Carbonneau down. He let loose a rip from his Sterling sub-machine gun, eliciting a snarl from the darkness. No furry demons erupted into silver-ignited sparks, so he must have missed.

Hingeberry wiped her reddened hands on her trousers, then rammed the plunger home. The plastic explosive detonated with a thunderous crack that snapped the bunker's reinforced door in half. It burst into the interior of the bunker like a fighting bull.

MacLeod followed it in, sweeping his rifle across the smoky, dusty room. It was empty. The Italians had not even left chairs. A man screamed behind him, only to be cut off.

“Clear!” MacLeod shouted. Hingeberry covered the door, firing off rounds from her carbine. Brookfields and Sørenson rushed past her, then posted up on the inside of the shattered doorway.

“Marika, run!” Boaz Sørenson shouted, calling for his wife. Marika Nangolo was a hell of a fighter; if anyone could've dodged the Vargulf, it was her. He shouted at her in his native Norwegian: “Trécheis!”

MacLeod joined them at the door, covering whoever was bringing up the rear.

Nangolo was sprinting for the relative safety of the bunker. She was covered in blood that stained her dark skin even darker, and her braids were swinging loose. One hand was wrapped in her shirt, and she held a pistol in the other.

“Marika!” Sørenson yelled. MacLeod could feel his relief radiating.

A growl rumbled through the trees, its timbre coursing through the officials' spinal fluid. Nangolo skidded to a halt a dozen yards from the door and her husband.

“Ti káneis?” he asked, his voice nearly cracking. She raised her pistol high, aiming above the bunker. Her hand trembled. MacLeod had watched her face down a pair of Vargulf in Syria, and she had killed the Romanian assassin in Bucharest herself, using a telephone. Her hands had been steady, then. This was blood loss, not fear.

Sørenson elbowed his way past Brookfields and stepped outside. Hingeberry tried to grab him, but he twisted out of her grasp. He was halfway to his trembling wife when the Vargulf waiting on top of the bunker pounced.

“God!” Hingeberry gasped. Sørenson crumpled under it weight, his lungs expelling every breath in a crackling whoosh. Nangolo dropped her knees. Her pistol slipped out of her hand.

“Boaz!” she wailed.

“Marika, run!” Hingeberry yelled, but Nangolo's entire world had shrunk down to the few yards between herself and her fallen husband.

“Let me,” MacLeod grunted. Brookfields and Hingeberry made space for the big man. He leveled his BAR and let loose a tear. They'd run low on silver rounds after months in the fight, ducking from one Office safehouse to another. Only one-in-four in his magazine were the catalytic metal, the rest were plain old lead-cored and copper-jacketed. These struck the glowering Vargulf high in the back, pelting it like well-packed snowballs. Even a graze from a silver round would've set it alight. Macleod had no such luck.

The snarling monster turned away from the sobbing woman and advanced on MacLeod. He aimed at its heart and pulled the trigger to no response. His BAR had run empty. He dropped the heavy gun onto its sling and drew Clan MacLeod's ancestral claymore.

The broadsword had been his grandfather's, and his grandfather's before that. It was as much a tool as it was a work of art or a weapon of war. The sword was exactly five feet from point to pommel, every inch specifically designed for efficiency in its brutal work. Its deadly edge glowed, despite the bare sliver of moon above. MacLeod couldn't help but smirk at the thought of his father's reaction when he'd told him he'd had it plated in silver. The old man had nearly dropped his ale. He had once known that sword like it was flesh and blood extending right out of his wrist. Now it belonged to his son.

The Vargulf's eyes went wide. It too knew this blade.

The thing stared him down. MacLeod could almost see the man it once was behind those mad eyes. He adjusted his stance. He knew exactly where his blade would enter its chest: right below its left collarbone. The wound would erupt in sizzling sparks, hot enough to burn skin and light fabric. He'd have to endure, and drive the blade all the way to the hilt. The Vargulf's bloodshot eyes narrowed and it tensed, ready to pounce. Perhaps it would be quick enough, smart enough to evade the claymore's razored tip, and perhaps this would be MacLeod's time. The Vargulf flexed its bloody hands, crushing an imagined throat in its grip. Both froze in place, waiting for the other to betray their attack. In that infinite instant, their worlds ended with each other.

“Try me, ye cur,” MacLeod snarled.

A snarl from the darkness severed their connection. The Vargulf's head snapped to the side. It stood up straight and brushed its hands together, wiping the blood off like a man. It chuffed and nodded at MacLeod before bounding away.

Nangolo roused herself enough to crawl on her hands and knees to Sørenson's side. MacLeod held his sword at the ready and escorted Brookfields and Hingeberry over to her. He was quick enough to split a horsefly with it, a Vargulf would be in for a nasty surprise if it tried something.

Nangolo let Hingeberry and Brookfields drag her into the bunker. She was nearly comatose. They gave Sørenson's still body a wide berth. Nangolo reached out weakly for his crooked hand but couldn't quite reach him. MacLeod stayed on their six, ready to bisect anything that followed.

The four of them slipped back into the dark bunker. It was a trap, of course, but it was solid. There was only one way in. The Vargulf would have to face them head-on, not pick them off one-by-one.

“Her pistol,” Hingeberry realized. They'd left it were it had fallen. MacLeod grunted. Every ounce of silver counted, now. He made ready to dash out for it, but a chorus of howls froze him in the shattered door.

“A right rabble o' them out there, ah'd say,” MacLeod observed. He tried to count the cries, but the way they echoed off the trees made it impossible.

“Help me with this,” Brookfields grunted. He was trying the drag the door they just blown back over to the bunker's entrance. MacLeod sheathed his claymore and gave him a hand. It was reinforced steel and bent awkwardly. They hauled it over as best they could, jamming it in the deformed frame. It might slow a Vargulf. It wouldn't hurt.

MacLeod reloaded his long gun and tossed the empty magazine aside. It clattered hollow across the bare concrete floor. Nangolo jumped at the sound.

“Me BAR's last mag,” he told them after a moment. The magazines for the blasted gun were so heavy that most times it was carried by a team, with one sad sack humping the gun and the other saddled with its ammo. He attempted a half-smile and pointed to the claymore on his back. “But the sword isn't like t’ run out any time soon.”

“Stabbing isn't my first choice,” Brookfields said. He eyed the contents of his revolver. Each round gleamed in silver. “I can hold my own for a moment, however.”

“I have enough left here to vaporize one or two of those curs,” Hingeberry said after digging through her pack.

Nangolo whimpered. She was staring at the wall like it was writ over in scripture.

“Prepare defenses,” Brookfields said after a moment. “We know those things operate on a timer.”

It made sense to MacLeod. The Vargulf would eventually have to either rush them or retreat. The papers that Iris Geiger had smuggled to them when they'd evacuated her and the children to England had told them as much. A transformed man has perhaps twenty minutes to obtain calories before he would pass out.

Officials had interviewed her from her new home at the asset retention center in Pitmiddle but produced no further information. She hadn't a clue about what her husband had designed for Department Three. She'd been a comfortable, blissfully ignorant Nazi until the very day she'd been whisked away to Scotland.

Hingeberry went to work fashioning her remaining plastic explosive into bombs, and Brookfields began scouting the rest of the small bunker, looking for secret exits or air vents that might be used for escape or infiltration. His search was quick, and fruitless. They might as well have been in a mausoleum.

It was a small room, circular and about the size of a carriage house. A washroom, an ammo store, and a two-bunk barracks took up the far end. The Italians had built a ring of these things, intent on holding their newly conquered islands against any invaders. When the war started turning against them, they'd pulled back to the boot. The Nazis had tried to fill in the gaps, but small islands like this one fell through the cracks. The bunkers were too new to be on old maps and too insignificant to be on the new ones. They remained, but only ghosts manned them.

They also seemed the perfect place to take a man too valuable to kill, too smart to keep hidden, and too wanted to keep anywhere anyone remembered existing. This is where their odyssey to find Hermann Geiger should have ended.

“Boaz,” Nangolo whimpered. She sat straight up, staring through the gap over the crumpled door. “Where is he? Wo ist er?”

Sørenson was gone. Only a bloodstain remained.

“Lord Jesus,” Hingeberry whispered.

“They took him! They took him!” Nangolo shrieked. Her broken voice careened around the small concrete room. MacLeod's mouth went dry. They all knew what the Vargulf did to dead bodies.

“Dear, you have to stop,” Hingeberry said, holding her close by the shoulders. Her voice trembled as well. Nangolo shoved her off and sprinted for the door.

“Stop her!” Brookfields shouted.

MacLeod tried to grab her, but she twisted under and around his arms. She'd always been faster than him, even in training.

“Mar!” he grunted. He managed to snag her by the web gear.

“Let me go!” she wailed, thrashing against him. Hingeberry caught up to them and tried to wrap Nangolo up in a bear hug. The larger woman threw her aside. Hingeberry tripped over her heels, stumbling until she clanged against the fallen door.

“Stop!” she cried.

A dark shape rose to fill the doorway behind her.

“Down!” MacLeod roared. He brought his BAR to bear, but the Vargulf had already reached in and yoked Hingeberry like a shepherd, hauling her wide-eyed and shocked over the partially blocked door.

“Sandra!” Nangolo screamed She lunged for the doorway, but MacLeod kept his hand locked tight in her webbing. Hingeberry screamed back. She was just outside. The Vargulf snarled, then did something to make Hingeberry cry out in pain.

“Cover me,” Brookfields ordered. He stacked up at the door. Waiting for MacLeod and trying his best to not let what was happening to Hingeberry rattle him.

MacLeod hauled back on Nangolo's webbing until they stood face-to-face. He leaned in, placing his sweat-soaked forehead against hers. His warpaint smeared onto her. He held her there until their eyes locked.

“Nothin' daff, aye?” he asked. She stared back at him in excruciating silence.

“Cover me!” Brookfields shouted. Desperation cracked his voice.

MacLeod hadn't a clue what Nangolo was thinking, but Hingeberry didn't have time for debate. He stacked up on the opposite side of the door from Brookfields, BAR at the ready. The lanky Englishman was trembling, his black hair hanging in sweaty strands. He looked pale, and distant, like the evening had cored him.

“On three,” he said. A bone snapped outside, eliciting another howl from Hingeberry.

“Don't do it!” she shrieked. “They're - !”

The Vargulf grunted, and did something that turned her shriek to a higher keen that before.

Nangolo rushed past the two officials and clambered over their makeshift barricade before they realized her intent. Brookfields raised his revolver, but she was in the line of fire.

The Vargulf stood to greet her, blood frothing in its toothy maw. She came within a yard or two before it tensed to pounce. At the very last instant, its body uncoiled like a spring. Instead of tearing into Nangolo, it tripped, yelping in confusion. Hingeberry had wrapped her remaining arm around its ankle. The creature snarled and kicked at her, nearly folding her in half.

When it reacquired its target, Nangolo was already on it. She raised a small object in her hand, then stuffed it into the thing's gaping jaws and danced out of reach. The Vargulf clawed at whatever she'd jammed in its mouth. Nangolo stepped back and graced it with a cruel, toothless smile. She tapped her wrist and counted down 'three, two, one' with her fingers.

The Vargulf's head popped in a blast that rang through the forest. Its grotesquely muscled body stayed standing, quivering and spurting black fluid. It was like the thing's head, neck, and upper chest had been scooped off by a bloody post-hole digger. Hingeberry's hand-crafted explosive worked as advertised. The carcass trembled for a moment, then fell.

Nangolo scrambled to Hingeberry's side. She was still.

“Is she alive?” Brookfields called out.

“Barely,” Nangolo answered. “She needs a tourniquet. And her back… Help me.”

“Lord,” Brookfields whispered. He looked at the floor, muttering, running through every possible scenario. Sweat rolled down his face.

“Sir,” MacLeod said. Brookfields didn't respond. MacLeod huffed. He leaned his BAR against the wall and drew the claymore. Someone had to do something. He readied himself to rush out into the open. “Ah'm gettin' 'er.”

“Wait!” Nangolo yelled at him. She stood, clutching the second of Hingeberry's bombs in her hands, then called out to the woods around the bunker: “I see you.”

Four Vargulf dropped from the trees and leaped off the bunker's roof, landing between her and the relative safety within. Two faced her down, the others turned to glare at Brookfields and MacLeod. The largest one huffed, sending a pair after Nangolo.

She activated the bomb, ready to fling it, but they were even faster than her. They wrapped her up, squeezing her arms, and the bomb, tight to her chest. They grunted, their approximation of laughter, then shoved her atop Hingeberry's still body. When the explosive went off a second later, it took both women with it.

Both Vargulf staggered out of the smoke. They shook gore from their scruff like wet dogs, then grinned at the surviving officials.

“You bloody bastards!” Brookfields roared. He aimed the pistol and fired wildly. The Vargulf bounded away, and the last of his silver rounds flew harmless between the trees.

“Back!” MacLeod shouted. He retreated from the doorway, pulling the shaken lieutenant behind. His claymore stayed between him and the shadows that were growing to block out the moonlight. A hairy hand shoved the broken door aside like it was a coffee table rather than a twisted slab of steel. One of them stalked inside, leaving the others to wait and to watch.

The creature filled the small room. MacLeod did not give it the chance to gloat or to plan.

“Commando!” he roared. His voice shook the concrete to its rebar. He surged forward like the highlanders of old, keeping his claymore at his side. Too high a swing and he'd hit the ceiling; too low, the floor. When he brought the blade around, the Vargulf danced backward, quick as a minnow. It knew swords, but it did not know the Scottish claymore. What would have been far enough for an English or German blade to whiff past was still a foot within MacLeod's range.

Sparks erupted as he hammered the blade through the monster's arm, between its ribs, and into its foul, warped heart. Noon-bright light illuminated the entire bunker, forcing MacLeod to squint. Stars pelted his arms and face, leaving little sizzles and pink kisses wherever they landed. The Vargulf tried to howl, but flame shot white-hot out of its open mouth like a blast furnace. MacLeod leaned in and shoved the claymore as deep as it would go, then twisted, cracking the thing’s charred ribs in its chest.

When it stopped twitching, he placed his boot on its crackling, collapsing chest and kicked out, ignoring the bite of flame on his bare shins. The corpse tumbled backward, forming a blazing barricade between him and the rest of the pack.

“Bully!” Brookfields shouted, yelling over MacLeod's shoulder at the pacing Vargulf outside.

The largest of the remaining three snarled. It was easy to recognize: it stood straighter than the others, closer to a man than whatever its two subordinates had become.

“Glad tae meet ye, Mister Ger’ardt,” MacLeod called. The thing locked eyes with him.

“Gerhardt?” Brookfields said.

“Aye, the one, an' luck be with us, only,” MacLeod said. Gerhardt snorted, and his two subordinates stalked forward together. They had to crouch to enter the bunker. They stepped over their dead comrade, ignoring the sparks and smoke to glower at MacLeod. He pulled the claymore back, ready to strike again. Its blade still glowed a dull orange.

If these two were intimidated by the sword, their fear for it was overshadowed by their fear of the monster giving them orders.

They struck as one, clawed fingers slashing, jackhammer fists swinging, teeth gnashing. They knew his measure now, and gave his claymore a wide berth. They pushed him back with every attack, quickly overwhelming him in the small space. Brookfields had to scramble out of the way before he was pinned to the wall behind MacLeod.

With the lieutenant out from behind him, the second Vargulf disengaged.

“No!” MacLeod roared. This was what they wanted. He surged forward, only for his Vargulf to pounce. Its hooked fingers tore at his clothes, its protruding fangs snapped at his throat. He tried to keep the claymore between them, but none of the cuts he left blazing across its hands or chest slowed it. Any misstep would mean his throat torn from his neck.

The battle behind him was as furious. Brookfields produced a stiletto dagger from his boot. The Vargulf was not impressed. It pounced. Brookfields met its attack with his own. The dagger's tapered point was sharp and narrow and threaded through the Vargulf's pelt like a needle. He drove the blade into is face, chest, neck a half-dozen times, sewing-machine-fast. Had the blade a hint of silver in it, the Vargulf would have died on the spot. Steel would cut, yes, but only silver burned.

The creature staggered away from the lieutenant, clutched at its punctured throat. It wheezed for a second, matching Brookfields' heavy breaths. With each inhalation, its breathing cleared up. Within seconds, the foul chemicals coursing though its bloodstream had knit its flesh back together.

MacLeod had no time. The Vargulf before him was relentless, and it was smiling as it slashed and snapped at him. It liked this. MacLeod lashed out with a kick that would've sent a brick wall tumbling. The Vargulf took his boot to the chest without so much as stumbling, chuffing with laughter as it did so. Blood frothed between its teeth, the blood of officials.

MacLeod had read the reports. Many of the Vargulf had once been soldiers, zealous SS officers. But one had been recruited from a cell, a killer so heinous that even Nazis had thought him an abomination. Only one brought his taste for flesh into the transformation with him. The other had to learn it.

“Konrad Schovajsa,” MacLeod guessed with a smirk. “Did they let ye out of ye cage for me?”

The Vargulf laid off his attack and stood tall, sneering. Konrad flexed his reddened hands, letting sparks pop and erupt between his knuckles. MacLeod knew the look. Konrad was considering exactly what manner of violence to inflict upon him. He sought cruelty and creativeness.

MacLeod's violence was professional and efficient, so his considerations were faster.

Konrad studied MacLeod from a few paces back, still going over the best ways to eviscerate him. The moment's reprieve was all the official needed. He lashed out, bringing the claymore around with a speed honed by decades of practice. Brookfields' Vargulf didn't realize it was under attack until the impact. Its spine was thick, and reinforced with induced bone growth and surgical implants. MacLeod severed it with the second chop.

The bisected creature fell in two, shooting a torrent of white flame from each half.

“Good Lord,” Brookfields said. The moment's relief drained him, and he fell against the wall. He was covered in toxic black blood, striped through with fresh red draining from a dozen wounds all over him. MacLeod went to steady him, but he was suddenly off the ground.

Konrad lifted him like he was a sandbag, flinging him dismissively into the concrete wall. MacLeod's helmet clanged and things went dark.

His vision went in and out. It felt like he was drunk. His chest had a thousand pounds pressing down. His arms moved slower than he thought they should. He could not tell how long it was between the few thoughts he was able to form.

Konrad stepped over the pieces of his pack mate's smoking corpse. Brookfields held his dagger in front of him, hands shaking.

Darkness, pressure, pain.

Gerhardt stalked in. He reached down and tested the edge of the Clan MacLeod claymore. It was six feet and a mile out of MacLeod's reach. An angry little ember flared to life on his gnarled finger where he made contact. The Vargulf hissed and pulled his hand away. MacLeod chuckled. Gerhardt kicked him in the stomach, hard enough to knock him into the wall again.

Darkness, pressure, pain.

A blast shook the small bunker. Concrete dust settled on MacLeod's face. A Vargulf bounded to the door. Sparks were cascading out of its shoulder. Its arm was missing. Gerhardt snarled at it.

Darkness, pressure, pain.

A stick grenade clattered across the floor. It settled in the middle of the small room. MacLeod was alone. He threw his arm over his face.

Light, pressure, pain.

“Colonel!” someone said. He sounded muffled. A French accent. MacLeod rolled onto his back and stared upward. A bald man was staring down at him behind mirrored glasses. He was stocky and gruff, with a thin mustache. When he spoke again, MacLeod realized the man was shouting at the top of his lungs. “Colonel!”

A group of men entered the bunker. The grenade had left a char in the floor.

“Is he alive?” a British man asked. He was tall, with a bushy mustache and a monocle. His outfit looked more fit for safari than war. MacLeod knew him from something, but his mind could not connect to where.

“Yes, a bit,” the Frenchman said. “He has shrapnel in his arm.”

“Staunch the bleeding, ready him for transport,” the British man ordered. “We cannot dawdle. The Vargulf will return, and in greater numbers.”

THURSDAY MORNING, JUNE 26, 1943
ABOARD THE EXPRESS
ABOVE THE IONIAN SEA

Darkness, lightness, pain.

“We were so close,” the Englishman was saying. He was sitting next to MacLeod. The rumble of airplane engines shook the stretcher he was laid out on. It should have been deafening. He was inside a transport plane's flight cabin. The windows on the starboard side glowed orange, while it was still dark to port.

“Twenty minutes would have been sufficient to counter the ambush,” another Englishman replied. This one was wearing a full chemical attack suit. He voice was tinny through his gas mask.

“Good Lord,” the first man sighed. He sunk his face into his hands. “No other survivors?”

“We are considering eleven officials missing in action.”

“And Captain Carbonneau?”

“We are not sure. We have recovered remains from six to eight individuals. Any positive identifications are yet to be made.”

“They ate them,” MacLeod groaned. His arm hurt so badly that it slurred his words.

“That is unfortunately consistent with my observations,” the masked man said. “Do not sit up, corporal.”

“Where are we 'eaded?” MacLeod said. He laid flat on his back and closed his eyes. The cabin's bare bulbs were suddenly too bright for him. His head swam, and his memories of these people had yet to materialize.

“We are returning home,” the man in khaki replied. He puffed on a clay pipe. “We shall get you patched right up.”

“I 'ad a mission,” MacLeod replied.

“Yes, Operation Gumtree. When the Vargulf Korps relocated to the Near East and the Mediterranean, General Stephens appraised us of your mission of these past few months,” the masked man said. “Captain Carbonneau had you under radio blackout by then. We could not warn you after we intercepted Gerhardt's communiques with Doctor Metzger.”

“'Is whats?”

“His unit was reassigned to a security detail in the region of Sicily. He countered that he had one last trap to spring before he could report for duty.”

“They knew we were comin', used Geiger as bait,” MacLeod realized. “Again.”

“It appears so, Corporal MacLeod,” the masked man confirmed.

“We cannae leave 'im to them,” MacLeod said.

“Our Bureau is taking up your hunt,” the old man said. The holster on his thigh held three pistols. He took out one and examined it in the sunlight. Scrolled silver spiraled up and around its barrel like gleaming ivy. “Geiger's turn of conscience will save many lives. I can assure you that he shan't be in their clutches for long.”

“And Ger'ardt?”

The older man holstered his revolver and puffed on his pipe. The shadows pooled under his eyes disappeared as the cherry glowed orange. MacLeod recognized him then: Colonel Sir Doctor Alistair Halistone, one of the First Eleven officials, a man who had been fighting evil on and beyond the front lines since before MacLeod had been born. The Colonel let the smoke roil around his mouth, considering his words words for a long moment before he answered:

“He is my quarry now. I shall see him again soon.”

MacLeod spoke slowly; he would not have his next words be misunderstood:

“No, Colonel, we will see 'im soon.”

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Copyright © 2023 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.

Written and edited by Daniel Baldwin.