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  Still nothing.

  Cole took the binoculars from Vaccaro and glassed the field. He could see bodies in the grass, and a child doubled over in the middle of the field, covering his head with his arms. Poor kid, Cole thought. Bullets must be flying around him, and yet he hadn't moved.

  Then, through the binoculars, Cole saw the reason why. With a shock, he realized that a rope ran from the boy's waist to a stake in the ground.

  Staked out like a goat.

  What sort of sick son of a bitch would do that to a kid? The German sniper. Rohde. Cole felt his blood begin to boil.

  "Any idea where the sniper's at?" Vaccaro asked in a whisper, as if the German might hear him.

  "Not yet," Cole said. He handed back the binoculars. "You take a look."

  Cole judged the distance to be nearly 1,000 yards. More than half a mile. A long way to shoot. One hell of a long way, as a matter of fact.

  Some things were in his favor. There wasn't so much as a breath of wind. He knew his rifle intimately and could coax every last yard out of it.

  The distance seemed even farther in the reduced amplification of the rifle scope.

  "Vaccaro, I want you to keep those binoculars glued to that field. You see so much as a whisker of that son of a bitch, you let me know."

  "Got it."

  The fact that Vaccaro had not said anything previously spoke volumes. His silence indicated that he thought Cole must have gone crazy to think that he could hit anything that far away.

  Cole agreed, but short of picking up the church and moving it, this was the best vantage point he was going to find.

  Cole could see the boy in the field. The binoculars were stronger, so through the scope he could no longer see the rope, but he could imagine where it was, stretched taught about a foot above the ground.

  Keeping that picture in his mind, he aimed and fired.

  Rohde watched and waited. The situation in the field had fallen into a silent stalemate that was broken by a distant rifle report.

  Moving at supersonic speed, the bullet cracked across the open expanse of the field somewhere in Leo's vicinity.

  Another shot kicked up the dirt near Leo's feet.

  Rohde wondered who was shooting, and what the shooter was trying to hit.

  There came a third shot. Again, it kicked up dirt at the boy's feet.

  "What the hell, Cole? Are you trying to kill that kid?" Through the binoculars, Vaccaro had seen the dirt erupt where the bullet struck.

  "Where did I hit?"

  "Four o'clock and five feet short of the boy," Vaccaro said in a strained voice.

  Cole worked the bolt. Fired.

  "What the hell are you doing? You're gonna kill that kid."

  "High or low?" Cole asked.

  "Neither," Vaccaro said. "That bullet hit at three o'clock about two feet from the kid. Jesus, Cole. What the hell are you doing? Don't shoot that kid."

  In his mind's eye, Cole kept the sight picture of where the crosshairs had been for the last shot. He imagined just where a taut rope would be, running from the boy to a stake in the ground.

  This wasn't aiming. This wasn't even hoping. This was more like a daydream of a shot.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Cole took a breath. He could not see the rope securing the boy, but he could imagine it there. He let his finger put tension on the trigger.

  Traveling at 2700 feet per second over a distance that would take a man 15 minutes to walk across, the bullet cut the taut rope like a knife.

  Through the scope, he saw the boy jump up and run.

  Rohde watched in amazement as Leo ran like the wind, right toward the arms of an American GI who had materialized out of the woods and stood there waiting for the boy.

  Rohde stared in disbelief before it dawned on him that the shot he had just heard had not been random at all. It was intended to cut the rope keeping Leo tethered to the stake. Who could possibly make such a shot? And from how far out?

  He raised his rifle. Instantly, the post sight settled on the boy. He started to squeeze the trigger.

  "Cole! I saw the son of a bitch,” Vaccaro said.

  “Tell me where he's at."

  "I don't—hold on, hold on. There’s a kind of ditch down there if you look real hard. It’s in front of that clump of bushes.”

  Cole screwed his eye tighter to the telescope. “Yeah, I see it now. I don’t see him, but I see where the field’s been dug up.”

  It was a long way to shoot, but Cole's bullet hit close. It would be enough to rattle Rohde.

  A bullet zipped past Rohde’s ear, causing him to flinch just at the moment that his own rifle fired. Damn, but that was close!

  An involuntary shiver ran through him, as if the bullet had set off shock waves in the air. He glimpsed the boy being caught up in the arms of the American on the other side of the field, and both of them scurried to safety.

  Rohde kept very still, waiting for another bullet. There was just one shot. That was the trademark of a sniper. Hugging his belly to the dirt of the trench, Rohde considered that he’d heard only the distant report of a rifle. Whoever had fired that bullet was very far away. Could it possibly be the American hillbilly sniper whom Rohde had hoped to lure with his trap? There was no telling without catching a glimpse of that helmet with its Confederate flag.

  If it was the American sniper, he was a damn good shot.

  His heart hammering, Rohde began to wonder if he’d gotten more than he had bargained for. He had imagined himself having the upper hand, but not the other way around.

  There was no going back now. He must use his wits to survive this, and to shoot the American hillbilly in the bargain.

  Instantly, Rohde made up his mind. He could have shot at the retreating GIs, but the American sniper had somehow spotted him. His first sniper's nest was compromised.

  Betting that all eyes were on the GIs trying to get to safety, Rohde used the shallow ditch he had cut to wriggle backward out of his hidey hole. The ditch led to the sort of hunter's blind he had created 20 feet away. With any luck, the American sniper would make some misstep, and Rohde would pluck him off from the safety of his second hide.

  He rolled out of the ditch and slipped behind the screen of multiflora rose and brush. He kept his movements to a minimum, trying not to attract any attention. He paused, holding his breath, but no one was shooting at him.

  The only thing that he didn't like about this second hide was that it provided concealment, rather than cover. This was a fundamental from sniper school. Concealment kept one hidden. It was like standing behind a curtain. Cover actually stopped bullets. It was like standing behind a brick wall. The hole in the ground had provided both, and he had been able to fire from the position as well. The hunter's blind that he had made offered concealment alone. Clumps of bushes were not going to stop a bullet.

  “There he is again! He’s back in that bush.”

  “That wild rose bush?"

  "Do I look like a goddamn gardener to you?"

  "All right, now there's lots of bushes in that field. Is it that bush with them little white flowers on it?"

  "Yeah, yeah, that’s the one. Dead center of that bush, about three feet up, not down on the ground.”

  Cole fired again.

  Somehow, the American had spotted him.

  One moment, Rohde had considered himself safe, and the next, a bullet seemed to reach out of the air and grab at his uniform jacket, plucking at the fabric. He cursed again. This sniper must have eyes like an eagle!

  With a final burst of speed, Rohde ran and pitched forward into the hedgerow itself, burrowing deep within until he reached the rocky shelf that he had cleared.

  Heart pounding, he threw himself down on his belly, got his elbows under him, and began scanning the far edge of the field for any sign of the sniper.

  But those shots had sounded so far away. It didn’t make sense. He played his scope even farther out, looking for a tree or hillock that could have provided
a vantage point for the enemy sniper.

  Where, where, where—

  He scanned a few trees, and just as quickly dismissed them.

  With the scope, his field of view wandered even farther out. Finally, he focused on a church steeple on a slight rise far beyond the field. He recognized the church as Église St. Domini, which he had passed often enough in his Jäger missions.

  The church presided over a village crossroads, appearing as ancient and neglected as the last apple on the tree after the frost. The church was high enough to have a commanding view of the field, although at that distance, any men in the field would appear to be hardly bigger than ants. As the Americans measured it, the distance would be 1000 yards.

  Realization slowly dawned on Rohde that the American sniper must be in that church steeple. There was no other possibility.

  Several thoughts ran through his mind. First of all, he was shocked that any man could shoot that far with any accuracy in combat conditions. At that distance, a shooter would need the eyesight of an eagle, with nerves as steady as a marble statue.

  While Rohde felt reasonably confident about shots at 400 meters, anything much beyond that was like whistling in the wind. And yet, Rohde was himself an impressive marksman.

  A tremor of fear and awe ran through him. Could it be the hillbilly sniper? No one was that good with a rifle.

  His own scope was not strong enough to pick out any details of the church, so he reached for the Zeiss binoculars in his pack. They were far larger and more precise.

  At that distance, he thought, the sniper must surely have a spotter who had a strong pair of binoculars to help the shooter pick out targets.

  He put down the rifle and trained the binoculars on the church.

  Built of squat blocks of stone, the ivy-covered walls made it appear as if the old church had grown out of the countryside itself. The steeple was far from grand, crowning the church more like a squat bowler hat than a top hat.

  He did not know what he expected to see, but it was not this. What sprang to his eye was a small flag like those that children waved along parade routes. It fluttered from one window of the steeple. This flag clearly displayed the Stars and Bars that Major Dorfmann had described. The rebel flag of the Confederacy.

  It was clear that the flag was displayed as a calling card. It was as good as a sign announcing that the American hillbilly sniper had set up shop there.

  Rohde fired at the church, although he didn’t have any real target. All discipline was gone. He was shooting out of anger and frustration. Breaking every rule in his sniper’s textbook. But damn it all, it felt good.

  A bullet slapped at the stone walls of the church and whipsawed away, the noise of the ricochet sending a twang down Cole's spine.

  Another bullet struck the church, another smacked the steeple. So, the German had spotted the flag. Just as Cole had hoped, he was charging like a bull, shooting in a hurry, not aiming at any definite target except the church itself.

  "Not a lot of cover up here,” Vaccaro said nervously.

  "He ain't gonna hit shit.”

  At this range, Cole was damn near shooting blind. He took his best guess at where the German sniper lay hidden, and squeezed off another round.

  Several bullets clipped the brush near Rohde's hiding place, but he managed to ignore them. The sniper was only estimating his location. One shot came very close, the bullet striking the old twisted tree limb overhead. Rohde kept his eyes pressed to the rifle scope. Finally, it was the sound of machine-gun fire that caused him to wrest his attention away. On the other side of the field, the squad of Americans was advancing. They kept up a steady fire.

  Time to go.

  "He's running! I saw something move through the bushes."

  "Watch him, now. Where's he at?"

  "Back in the hedgerow. Two o'clock from your goddamn rose bush."

  Short of putting himself in Vaccaro's head, Cole had to rely on his spotter's description. He fired. Worked the bolt. Fired again. Now he was just guessing, shooting in the German's general direction. Making the German keep his head down.

  The firing at the church stopped.

  "Did you get him?" Vaccaro's voice was pitched high with excitement.

  Cole didn't know. Had he got the German? There was no way to tell for sure, short of working their way over there. But something hadn't felt right. He couldn’t have explained it to anyone else, not even to Vaccaro, but he knew when he hit a target. Cole was fairly certain that the sniper had simply melted away.

  “Didn’t get him yet.” Cole spat on the stone floor and lowered the rifle. “That would just be too damn easy, wouldn’t it?”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Cole and Vaccaro sat up in the steeple, both of them smoking cigarettes and letting the adrenaline ebb out of their systems. From this high up, they had a good view of the surrounding countryside. Still, they kept their heads down. Cole stuffed the Confederate flag back into his pocket. He had sent his message to the sniper; no point in attracting additional attention.

  With the German sniper gone, the American GIs were no longer pinned down in the field and had moved on. Across the countryside, Allied troops were moving toward Argentan and Falaise as if part of a huge incoming flood tide. The squad was one small eddy in that flood.

  Some soldiers from the squad would not be going anywhere, however. Their bodies lay under the gray sky, victims of the German sniper. A few days from now, thousands of miles away, telegrams would be delivered to the doors of the dead soldiers' parents or wives.

  Cole decided that maybe it was the German whose bullets had traveled the farthest today.

  "Hell of a shot, Hillbilly," Vaccaro said, as if reading his thoughts. "You saved that kid and sent that Kraut sniper running for cover."

  "Even a blind squirrel finds a nut now and then."

  "And a stopped clock is right twice a day, too." Vaccaro shook his head and grinned. "See? Your hillbilly sayings are rubbing off on me. Now, let's get the hell out of here."

  The German sniper had melted away into the landscape. They had seen the boy running for the American lines. With any luck, he was back at the command post right about now, eating a chocolate bar.

  They went back down the ladder into the stillness of the old chapel. Cole liked to hear a good preacher thump a Bible now and then, but back home that had mostly been at clapboard-sided country churches and camp meetings, out in the open. This stone church felt too dark and brooding. The God who dwelt here wasn't like the one back home.

  Harper looked shook up. He had been transferred from the typing pool just a few days before, after all. "Did you hear those bullets hit the church? God, what a sound a ricochet makes."

  "I guess it's a little louder than that bell on the typewriter when you get to the end of a line," Vaccaro said with a smirk.

  Cole touched his shoulder. "You did good, Harper. I been gettin' shot at for months now, and I still ain't used to it."

  The forward command post consisted of a barnyard where a Jeep was parked, a map spread across its still-ticking hood. The air smelled unpleasantly of fresh manure churned up by the Jeep's tires. Three officers huddled over the map, one of them being Lieutenant Mulholland. He looked up eagerly as Cole, Vaccaro, and Harper walked in.

  "Did you get that son of a bitch?" Mulholland asked.

  Cole shook his head. "No, but he run off with his tail between his legs."

  "I guess that's something. These goddamn Kraut snipers are wreaking havoc with the advance, and that sniper Rohde is the worst of them," Mulholland said. He turned to the map and thumped it with the flat of his hand for emphasis. "We've got an opportunity here to bag the whole German army, or what's left of it, anyway. There's a Polish division to the northeast, moving in to help us out."

  "Polish?" They had seen their share of Brits and Canadians in Normandy, but Polish troops were something new.

  "Yeah, so try not to shoot any of them by accident, and let's hope to hell they don't shoot
us."

  One of the other officers took his eyes off the map and looked at Cole. It was a captain whom Cole did not recognize.

  "You must be Cole," he said. "I could tell by that 'Stars and Bars' on your helmet. I read about you in that newspaper article by Ernie Pyle."

  Nearby, Vaccaro muttered, "Jesus, did anyone not read that story? Other than the hillbilly, I mean."

  The captain went on, "That was a helluva good story. I did want to know though, what kind of name Micajah was? Never heard that one before."

  "Micajah was a prophet in the Bible, sir."

  "Is that so? The lieutenant here says you can shoot the buttons off a German at four hundred yards."

  Cole was more than a little surprised that Mulholland would brag about him. Whatever animosity remained toward Cole over Jolie Molyneux must be wearing off.

  Cole drawled, "If I get a German in my sights, sir, I'll be sure to shoot off more than his buttons."

  The captain laughed. "I'll bet you will. Give 'em hell, soldier."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And get some rest, boys. All of you. This whole damn countryside is about to become a battlefield. What's left of the German army is over there." The captain waved vaguely to the east. "We've got the Brits closing in from the north, the Polish coming at them from the south, and none other than General Patton himself going straight into their teeth. With any luck, we'll finish the war right here and be home for Christmas. It's up to us, boys."

  Cole distrusted enthusiastic officers. He moved off, intending to fill his canteen. It was already past mid-day, and humid.

  Mulholland caught up with him. "Listen, Cole. We may have some intel on this German sniper, Rohde."