Martin Bozeman Holland --- Not quite unrelated

[Lorpius Prime]

Martin Bozeman Holland scratched uncomfortably at his armpit. There was no other way to say it, the weather was simply too hot here. He took off his cloth cap and rubbed his forehead, but it was a futile gesture. His skin was raw and salty from sweat. Martin replaced the cap.

He looked out the dusty glassless window that provided absolutely no relief from the heat because there was no breeze to speak of. Outside, the city of Madrid languished beneath a thick haze of black smog. The cloud had sat in place for three days now, held there by the Sierra de Guadarrama mountains and the utter lack of wind. Inside the little room, blue tobacco smoke roiled and hung in mimicry of the coal-black fog outside. Between the smoke and the infernal heat wave, it was enough to drive a man to madness.

Martin, however, maintained an image of collectedness. He breathed in the smoke and smog without complaint, indeed he added to its mass on occasion with burning cigarettes. One sat in a metal tray by his left hand right now, red embers making their way slowly up the paper. He would take another drag on it in a moment, for now his hands were engaged in shuffling various papers and pamphlets before his searching eyes.

The printed news, if it could be called that. The press around this place was a joke, most of the papers Martin had were two- or single-page folded pamphlets with circulations no more than a few dozen daily, filled with the rantings of the exceedingly mad, and read by the exceedingly gullible. And it only got worse the further one traveled outside the city. Spain these days was seething with this radical nonsense and the experts were divided in opinion about whether it would explode in revolution or collapse in civil war.

It was Martin’s job to ensure that neither of these things happened, and he even had trouble seeing the difference between either outcome. Change brought uncertainty, uncertainty was dangerous, change was therefore unacceptable; Martin was an agent of the status quo. The strangest part of it was the Spanish government, of whom Martin was arguably one of the strongest allies, would have him shot if it ever discovered who he was and what he was doing here.

[Lorpius Prime]

Martin was reading a government circular about the hangings of three Catalan republican insurgents when he was interrupted by the door across the room opening. He set the paper down on the desk with the others and watched Sergeant Saunders enter and carefully seal the door behind him. Their lookout, whose kepi and thin mustache made him look more French than English, turned towards Martin and held up an envelope.

“Dispatch for Major Plaskett, it’s from London.”

Martin beckoned for the Sergeant to bring the telegram to him. Saunders crossed the long room in just a few strides despite his short stature and deposited the envelope in Martin’s hand. Martin nodded and the NCO turned back to return to his post downstairs. They did not salute each other. It was unlikely that anyone was watching them through the windows, or would take much interest even if they saw, but the intelligence agents took no chances. Such were Major Plaskett’s standing orders, and Martin highly approved.

When Saunders had gone and the door secured again, Martin opened the envelope with a bayonet. It only took a minute for him to decide that the message inside was sufficiently important that the Major needed to see it himself. Most of the correspondence from London to the Madrid station was mindless bureaucratic formalities which Martin could deal with himself. He didn’t mind being a glorified secretary; Plaskett was an excellent field officer and Martin’s work kept the man free to focus on more important tasks.

He opened the leftmost of the two doors behind him, which led to the Major’s office, and braced himself against the hot air which greeted him. By necessity, the station commander could not have any windows open in his office, and in this weather that meant he worked in an oven. Martin did not envy the man’s situation.

Major Plaskett was holding a long sheet of paper in one hand and a pencil in the other, which he was using the make notations on one of the many posters taped to the office walls. He finished writing whatever it was before looking over to Martin.

“Yes, Captain?”

Martin held out the opened message, “News from London. We may have caught a break on Sánchez.”

The Major’s eyebrows lifted and he snatched the thin paper from Martin, “Have we now?”

Plaskett was in his early forties, only slightly shorter and broader in the shoulders than Martin. He had tightly curled and closely cropped brown hair just starting to show an occasional gray strand. Even with his age, he was just as fit as any of his subordinates. He wore loose, light-colored robes which made him look faintly Arab, though the dress was not uncommon in the region at this time of the year, and it certainly helped with the heat.

He grunted, “Mexico after all, then.”

“Some contract agent got lucky,” Martin nodded. “At least it seems promising to me,” he hastened to add.

The Major didn’t seem to mind, “Well we can’t very well afford not to see for ourselves, can we? Just be glad the right people noticed and sent this our way.” He put down whatever he’d been working on before on top of a cluttered desk and walked towards the large city map on the south wall.

“Hmmmm,” he looked at the telegram and chewed on the blunt end of his pencil. Martin, who had not been dismissed and was more than a little curious, hovered by the doorway and watched.

Plaskett made some light marks on the map and blew out his cheeks, “This could be trouble.” He waved Martin over and tapped at a point on the map with the pencil, “This warehouse backs right into the Barajas train yard. Prime real estate if you want access without the scrutiny.”

Martin nodded in agreement, “It’s too far from the city center for the Army to really watch, all their attention’s going to be on the air station.”

The Major frowned, “And we’re too blasted thin on the ground.” He sighed, “Would have checked it out eventually, but God only knows how long that would have been. This whole damn country’s a mess.” He drew a line with his finger from the rail hub to the nearby air station, “I wonder if that’s part of their idea, too. There’s also the river.”

“That’s not why,” Martin traced his own finger southwest along one of the rail spars which led past the warehouse. “This is a munitions factory. I’d say a quarter of Juan Carlos’s rifles pass through here. And there’s cartridges coming from Barcelona.”

Plaskett swore and went to dig in one of his file cabinets. He withdrew a fat folder and started flipping through the contents, muttering. Martin watched him roll his tongue inside his cheek as he considered a few of the papers inside.

“All right,” the Major shut the folder and dropped it back into its cabinet, “that fits. I hate to pass this one over to the locals, but we may be out of our league. Get, hmm…” he tapped the pencil against his chin, “Womack to check it out this evening. He can take Hart and Pierson. Hell,” he smiled, “you go yourself. You’ve been riding that desk long enough and Saunders can manage in the meantime. Yes that’ll do, Womack could use your head for the lightfoot stuff anyway.”

Martin nearly forgot himself and snapped into a salute, but he checked the movement and nodded instead, beaming. “Thank you, sir!”

[Lorpius Prime]

* * *

Lieutenant Womack could not join them; he had a meeting with one of his local contacts which was more important than a stakeout. He did, however, recommend someone to replace him, a civilian. Charles de Guamas was an unofficial, deep undercover agent. He didn’t operate out of the department’s office in the embassy, nor anywhere near it. He looked, talked, and for most of the day was an ordinary Spaniard, which meant he was near enough perfect for the job. Still, Martin was more than a little uncomfortable working with someone outside the chain of command, outside of any official hierarchy whatsoever. But there was nothing he could do about it, and with Womack absent he would be the only officer in the detail, meaning he’d have to take extra care to maintain the attitude and image of detached command.

Martin, Corporal Pierson, and Private Hart, having left the embassy compound at different times throughout the day, met up again in front of the run-down proletarian tenement building on the edge of Madrid’s industrial sector. Grimy-looking citizens gave them odd looks; the British men’s clothing was poor disguise here. Martin was grateful when they were ushered inside a basement flat by a man who seemed to recognize them.

“I’m sorry, can you tell us the way to the Guernica Memorial?” Martin asked at the door, in Spanish.

“You are in the wrong part of town, I’m afraid,” the man answered. Martin nodded and allowed him to shut the door behind the three soldiers.

“Harry told me you were coming,” said de Guamas, switching into English and lighting some lamps. “I have better clothes for you.”

And he did, the agents quickly changed into grease- and coal-stained overalls and ratty patched hats.

“I hope you have come armed as well,” their host went on, “Barajas is not a nice place, especially at night.”

“Worse than here?” Hart asked. He was new to the department and new, apparently, to the squalor which existed outside of the British Isles.

De Guamas laughed, “Much worse. The moors and those voodoo-magic mongrels from the Ivory Coast are thick around there. And those savages are worse than the Basque militias.”

Martin very much doubted it, but he didn’t protest, there was no point in it. Instead, he lifted out the pistol from the shoulder holster he’d discarded with his previous attire, “We can deal with trouble.” He dropped the weapon into one of the large pockets of his overalls. “But the point is to do this without attracting attention.”

Hart and Pierson both nodded gravely, de Guamas looked among the three of them before following suit. “I do not think we will be noticed. We are four rail workers getting off the late shift to enjoy a drink.”

Pierson chuckled when de Guamas held up a hip flask. Martin scowled, “I want everyone sharp for this. If intelligence is correct, we are not dealing with amateurs. We absolutely cannot afford mistakes,” he gave his men a menacing look, “especially stupid ones.”

The corporal became serious in an instant, snapping into a salute, “Yes, Captain!” De Guamas, on the other hand, merely shrugged. “Too much discipline can be suspicious.” He put the flask away without drinking from it, but didn’t seem to discard the thought entirely.

“Lack of discipline gets people killed.” Martin regretted that de Guamas wouldn’t be putting just his own life on the line, or held he might not have minded at all.

* * *

Hart had very little Spanish. Martin’s was impeccable, but suited to dry, proper language with few colloquialisms. Pierson was somewhat better, but his accent was terrible. In the end, they relied on de Guamas to coach them in simulating the kind of coarse conversation which would disguise them in this rather rough neighborhood.

They were lucky enough not to need it. The warehouse district near the train tracks was nearly abandoned by this hour—about 1 am—except for a few scattered homeless. They did pass a dark-skinned, glowering African once, but his attention seemed somewhere else entirely.

The four of them walked around the back of the building across the street from their target. Plaskett’s map said it was a storehouse for fine wines and champagne from France. But Plaskett’s map also said the warehouse they were staking out stored cut timber in preparation for milling. Based on the dispatch, that seemed unlikely.

Pierson took out a pair of boltcutters from his large coat and broke the chain and lock on the wine building while the others stood watch. They all slipped inside and shut the door behind them.

De Guamas lit a lantern, then passed the matches so Martin could light his own. That accomplished, Martin unfolded a scrap of paper which he’d carefully handcopied from the maps in Plaskett’s office.

“Plans say roof access is in the northeast corner,” he pointed. The little warehouse was mostly empty except for a few crates pushed up against a wall, and Martin kept an eye on the other three men to be sure none of them tried pilfering.

They walked by some dark office space and found a cramped stairwell, which they followed up to a door at the top.

[Lorpius Prime]

* * *

They saw nothing of interest that first night, and eventually Martin let the others sleep while he kept watch. The timber warehouse remained quiet; no one entered or left from any observable entrance. De Guamas had to leave the next morning to keep up his identity, but returned that afternoon with some warm food. He joined Pierson and Hart in a card game while Martin, again, kept up the surveillance.

A train pulled in, heading northeast from inside the city. It was the thirty-second one to pass along the same line that day. Martin looked it over casually through his binoculars, as he had with the previous thirty-one trains to stop there. But something changed.

“Movement, we’ve got activity,” he announced, just loud enough for his companions to hear. Hart and Pierson both stood up swiftly, while de Guamas continued chewing on a leg of something. The two soldiers moved to flank Martin, and Pierson twisted the caps off of the other binoculars.

“Time for a delivery, is it?” the corporal asked. Across the way, train workers were offloading a large rectangular steel container, working to place it on a rolling palette between the warehouse they were watching and its neighbor. But the entrance to the other warehouse was in the next alley over.

“What is happening?” De Guamas plodded towards the edge of the roof, Hart pointed towards the busy workmen. With a final haul on their ropes, the container was eased into place. The blue-uniformed workers got into place to push the cargo on its carriage.

Big rolling doors lifted up on rails in the side of the warehouse. The four spies all tried to peer inside, though Hart and de Guamas could only squint and crane their necks. The container was pushed inside and the doors slid shut again. It took all of thirty seconds and Martin hadn’t seen a thing.

“Damn,” he put down his binoculars. On his right, Pierson looked thoughtful.

“See anything?” he asked the corporal.

“Not much, sir,” Pierson shook his head. “There were definitely people in there, but I didn’t get a good look. We need to be up there,” he pointed to the roof of the warehouse immediately beside the one they were watching. “…uh, sir.”

Martin nodded, Pierson was right enough, but it would be difficult.

“That place is still in business though,” Hart chimed in. “They’ve been moving crates in and out all day.”

“We need the position anyway,” Martin responded. It was true, they wouldn’t see anything useful if all that place ever opened was its side doors, not from here. “Corporal, go do a walk-by, find out if you can’t see an easy way to get up there. While you’re at it, you can go ahead and see if you can catch a glance inside our target, too.”

Pierson saluted, handed off his binoculars to Hart, and left through the rooftop door.

He came back in less that a minute. Martin raised his eyebrows.

“Trouble, sir,” Pierson said gravely. “There’s some blokes poking around down there.”

De Guamas’ eyes went wide, “I thought you said this building is closed, that the owner was in court!”

“He is,” Martin replied, and cut off further protest with a sharp wave of the hand. He jogged across the roof to look down at the front door. There was a man standing outside of it, lighting a cigarette. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder.

Martin cursed himself for not posting a sentry. He’d been careless, lazy. He ran back to the others. To Pierson: “Did anyone see you?”

The corporal shook his head.

“How many?

“I saw two,” he held up the corresponding number of fingers.

“There’s one outside, so probably at least three.”

“Is that what they teach you at officer school?” de Guamas demanded, fear showing through the sarcasm. “How to add two and one?”

“Quiet,” Martin didn’t have time or patience to deal with insubordinate nonsense right now. “You two,” he pointed at de Guamas and Hart, “around there.” Martin motioned them behind the little hut which held the rooftop door, then tossed Private Hart the other pair of binoculars.

De Guamas looked like he wanted to argue, but Hart shouldered the binoculars and grabbed the civilian by the arm to lead him around.

Martin and Pierson crouched in front of the door. Martin gingerly turned the knob and opened it just a crack. The two listened.

Soft, Spanish voices bubbled their way up from down below. After several agonizingly long minutes, the first footsteps echoed on the concrete steps, and Martin shut the door.

“I make two,” he said.

“So do I,” Pierson nodded.

Martin gestured with a finger, and they circled back around the raised doorway, to where Hart and de Guamas were waiting. The Private rolled his eyes at Martin and jerked his head towards the civilian, who seemed to be fuming.

Martin patted Hart on the shoulder, “At least two, coming up.” He looked back to Pierson and pointed. When the corporal nodded, Martin used his hands to boost the other man up on top of the box which held the door. Then he grabbed Pierson’s lowered hand and let himself be hauled up as well.

They both crawled to overlook the door. The little hut was wide enough to fit them on top, but not much else. Martin took out the long knife-type bayonet from his overalls and slid it out of its scabbard. Pierson did the same. Martin hazarded a glance back to see that Hart had his pistol out, while de Guamas was just sweating. The soldiers nodded to each other.

He was back on Pierson’s left just in time, the door below them swung out. Two men walked through it, one right after the other. Neither seemed very alert or concerned. Both were armed, but only one had his rifle ready in his hands. The other’s weapon was still on his back. Both were Spaniards with dark curly hair, the one holding his rifle had a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

They glanced around the part of the roof they could see, and a trivial word passed between them. The smoker turned right to walk around the door hut, while his partner stepped forward. The door swung shut behind them, pulled by its spring.

Pierson struck first by a split-second. When Martin saw the corporal move to swing off the side, he himself leapt forward. He tackled the unsuspecting Spaniard from behind. Martin’s left hand went around the other’s forehead, and his right drove the bayonet into his enemy’s skull, just below the first vertebra. The man’s rifle slipped off his arm and clattered on the rooftop. Martin stood up quickly, taking his knee out of the dead man’s back and knife out of his neck. He looked around to Pierson.

The corporal had dealt with his own target just as swiftly, though with a rather messier strike to the temple, he was now crushing the fallen cigarette beneath his boot.

Martin cleaned his bayonet on the smoker’s shirt and resheathed it. “We’re bugging out, get them ready,” he nodded in the direction of their other team members. Then Martin went to check the front door again. It was still guarded by the same man. Martin prayed it was just the three of them.

They opened the door again to listen. After hearing nothing, the four started down the steps, trying to make as little noise as possible. Martin and Pierson went first, followed by de Guamas, with Hart in the back to keep an eye on the civilian.

They paused at the bottom of the stairs to let their eyes adjust to the dim light. Martin and Pierson looked around.

[Lorpius Prime]

The warehouse was just as bare as when they'd first entered it. As far as Martin could tell, the men who'd entered hadn't even moved around any of the handful of boxes against the back wall. And it seemed probable that they were the only ones who had entered, as they could not see a sign of anyone else within. Martin still had no idea what they had been doing, but that was a matter he could worry about later.

He caught Pierson's eye and jerked his head towards the warehouse's front door, indicating the sentry which had been left outside. The corporal nodded and drew his pistol; Martin did the same, then gestured for Hart to wait with de Guamas.

The two soldiers had only crossed about half of the warehouse floor towards the door, however, when it opened. A man's head appeared, silhouetted by the setting sun, and the muzzle of a rifle showed beneath it.

"Paolo?" the man called.

Pierson shot him. He hadn't had a choice, and it was a clean shot to the forehead, but Martin winced anyway even as the man crumpled into the doorway. He and Pierson both broke into a sprint to reach the door. Pierson got there slightly ahead, and began dragging the corpse inside while Martin glanced hastily around. He didn't spot anyone looking their way, so he grabbed up the dropped rifle and pulled the door shut as quick as he could.

"Clear!" he shouted, and Private Hart came out of the stair well, weapon down but ready. De Guamas followed closely behind, visibly shaking.

"That was the sentry," Martin announced when they were all within comfortable speaking distance. "I didn't see anyone else."

"No other entrance?" Hart looked around the cavernous room, as if to confirm what he already knew.

"Just the one," Martin pointed lazily to the small door behind him, with the heavy sliding cargo door beside it.

"Did anyone hear?" de Guamas asked nervously.

"If there's anyone nearby, they sure did," Pierson spat. "Now, whether they thought anything of it is another story, these walls will do a middling job of muffling a shot." He nodded around to the sides of the warehouse building.

"What if they're guards from the other warehouse?" Hart asked. "What if the others come looking for them?"

Pierson turned from the body on the floor to look at Martin, "Captain?"

Martin grimaced, he hated the way the sentry had surprised them, but nothing had really changed, they were still compromised.

"We're getting out of here, it's too hot for just us. Corporal," he nodded to Pierson, "the door, please."

Pierson nodded again, and stepped around the dead sentry and Martin, who beckoned for Hart to keep a hold of de Guamas and follow closely.

Pierson opened the warehouse door again, glanced from side to side, took one step through it, then spun and tried to dive back inside. He wasn't quite fast enough.

Martin's eyes went wide as he saw the Corporal stumble, blood spewing from one side of his belly. Then he, too, was forced to the ground as a hail of bullets began slamming into—and through—the front wall and doors of the warehouse.

[Lorpius Prime]

Lying on his belly, Martin brought his pistol to bear and fired three times at the first gunman who appeared in the doorway. He missed every shot. Then the gunman fired his rifle in return, and also missed; the bullet kicking up concrete dust about a foot from Martin's head. Somehow the absurdity of such ineffectual fire at such close range kept Martin from making a second attempt. In a way, that was fortunate, because the gunman didn't make another attempt to kill Martin. He did, however, swing the heavy stock of his rifle into the side of Martin's skull, an outcome for which Martin was less than grateful. He dropped his own gun, and couldn't get his hand to move in quite the correct way to pick it up again before his attacker kicked it away. Nor could he focus his eyes properly anymore, but had only a hazy view of another gunman standing on Pierson's right hand. When another blow landed on Martin's other temple, he decided it was too much trouble to keep trying to do anything, and he shut his eyes.

* * *

It was another blow to the head which brought him awake again. Martin staggered slightly as someone punched him in the side of the mouth. He found he couldn't stagger very much, however, as he seemed to be tied to something solid.

"¡Dime!" a voice demanded, and someone punched Martin in the other side of his mouth.

Martin burbled something, but it was more a reaction from having too much blood in his mouth than any actual attempt at speech. Voices muttered in front of him, and someone shook him rather forcefully by the shoulders before letting him go with a disgusted grunt. Martin risked opening his eyes.

One of them wouldn't open completely, but it was still enough to give him a clear picture. Two men Martin didn't know were standing in front of him, but they were turned towards each other and half-whispering rather than looking at him. Behind them, Martin could see a man tied to a chair, with a puddle of blood at his feet. As his eyes focused, Martin realized it was Corporal Pierson, and he looked to be only barely breathing.

[Lorpius Prime]

To Pierson's right was de Guamas, also tied down, but looking to be in much better condition. The civilian's eyes were darting around warily, as if he was trying to figure a way out of his predicament.

Which wasn't all that bad an idea, Martin thought. He could feel that his own hands were tied around the back of a heavy wooden chair, and his ankles secured to its legs, so he wasn't certain where to begin on a plan. Negotiating with their captors didn't seem a terribly promising contingency.

The men who had been beating Martin took a few steps to his right, where a fourth chair was occupied by Private Hart. The young man looked about as bad as Martin felt, but although he was slumped forward, he didn't appear to be bleeding out as Pierson was.

And he jerked upright the very first time they struck him across the cheek, which was more than Martin's reflexes had been able to manage.

"¡Dime!" one of them shouted, again. "¿Quién usted?"

"The devil?" Hart tugged at his restraints. "What do you want?"

Martin winced and saw de Guamas do the same. "Cállate," he hissed.

The partner of the man who had spoken pivoted and punched Martin in the stomach, sending him into a coughing fit. The interrogator ignored this, and knelt in front of Hart, leaning in to examine his face.

"English, eh?" the interrogator said.

Hart's mind appeared to have caught up with him, however, and he said nothing.

The interrogator frowned angrily, and grabbed Hart by the chin, forcing his face up. "Well fuck you, English." The Spaniard spat on Hart's face, then stood up, laughing while Hart blinked and shook his head.

Their two captors conversed for a minute in rapid-fire Spanish, but it was too accented and full of slang for Martin to follow. Even de Guamas seemed to be having trouble, from the dismal expression on his face. Or maybe he just didn't like what they were saying.

After a while, the interrogator turned around. He grabbed Hart by the chin again, and chuckled at the private's contemptuous sneer. "We're going to feed you to the jackal, English. See how much you talk then."

[Lorpius Prime]

His companion howled with laughter while the interrogator pulled out a giant knife—it almost qualified as a machete—from a scabbard tied to his boot. Then he used it to cut the ropes holding Hart down while his partner held a rifle pointed at Hart's gut. The private was smart enough not to try anything, but he glanced at Martin while the interrogator grabbed him under the shoulder and dragged him to his feet.

Martin nodded slightly—what else could he do?—while his brain continued to struggle to devise a way out of this situation, but he was having very little success. They were being held in another warehouse; it looked almost identical to the one in which they were captured, except that it was actually filled with large wooden crates. The interrogator, holding Hart by one arm while he pressed his knife into the private's back with the other, began marching his prisoner down the row of boxes to the walkway at one end.

"¡Espera!" de Guamas shouted, apparently deciding to try something himself. "¿Qué quieres?"

It didn't work, however, and the other Spaniard kicked de Guamas in the groin. The civilian lurched forward, nearly tipping in his chair, and groaned. The interrogator led Hart around the corner and they disappeared, leaving just one guard for the three prisoners. The remaining Spaniard didn't seem overly concerned by the chance of being overpowered by three beaten and restrained men, only two of whom were conscious. He lit a cigarette and leaned against a crate, humming something Martin didn't recognize.

Martin and de Guamas looked at each other, but could only shrug. Even if either of them had any bright ideas, they could hardly communicate with the guard standing watch over them. But that was a moot point at the moment, since neither of them seemed to see any feasible escape plan. Martin looked at Pierson again. Their captors might have tried to bandage wound a bullet had left in his side, but even if they had, it wasn't doing him much good. The puddle of blood at the corporal's feet had grown, and was starting to seep into the wooden slats of the crate behind him. Martin considered the merits of asking the remaining guard to do something, but he wasn't sure that wouldn't just speed up Pierson's approaching death.

His thoughts fled when Hart screamed.

[Lorpius Prime]

Private Hart, like everyone the Security Service assigned to foreign stations, had been trained to resist torture and other interrogation techniques. All the training in the world couldn't make a man immune to the weapons a determined enemy would use, of course, and everyone broke eventually, Martin well knew. But even though Hart was young and newly assigned, he was a competent field agent and should have been able to resist his captors for some time. But the desperation Martin heard in that scream left him with the discrete impression that Hart was not being tortured for information.

The noise stopped abruptly and de Guamas turned pale while their guard giggled, tobacco smoke streaming out his nose. Martin's brain launched into overdrive again, struggling helplessly to find the hidden key, the idea which would let them escape this utter disaster with their lives. It was no use, however, and he pulled against his bindings in frustration.

The back of his chair creaked. Martin blinked. He looked around, but neither the guard nor de Guamas seemed to have noticed the sound. He strained again, and the wood of the chair back moaned again as its posts slid ever so slightly in their joints. Well, he mused, at least it was better than no hope at all.

After a few seconds trying, he managed to catch de Guamas' eye again. Their guard was fiddling with his cigarette and not paying attention to the two prisoners, so he didn't see Martin nodding meaningfully at his chair and then at the Spaniard. De Guamas blinked a few times, then seemed to catch on to the intent of Martin's gestures. He glanced nervously over to the guard, and Martin nodded encouragingly.

De Guamas closed his eyes and gulped, then launched into a barrage of profanity directed at the guard, his immediate family, and the nature of their relationship. The Spaniard dropped his cigarette and seemed genuinely shocked for a moment, but then he unshouldered his rifle to grasp it like a club.

As he laid into de Guamas, Martin tensed and pulled furiously against his restraints. Rope cut into his arms and wood squealed promisingly, but did not give way. Martin growled and tried standing up, forcing the bottom of the chair backward with his legs as his arms pulled forward. He heard a tiny snap, but wasn't sure if it was wood or the sound of de Guamas' jaw breaking. He panted and looked over at de Guamas getting his teeth knocked out, but still somehow managing to keep up a drone of insults pouring out of his mouth along with his blood.

Desperate, Martin tried hopping in the chair as he squeezed, and this time the wood definitely started to come loose. With a final, manic laugh, Martin hurled himself back with his toes, slamming the chair and his elbows against the solid crate behind him. The back of the chair broke loose of the seat with a satisfying crunch of splinters.

The noise of it was too much for the guard to overlook, however, and he turned away from de Guamas. Despite Martin's success breaking off the chair back, his feet were still tied, and he couldn't get his hands, still tied to the broken back, around and under the chair to use. The guard advanced on him, turning the rifle around in his hands so he could fire.

De Guamas made a leap of his own, forward into the back of the guard's knees, sending both of them tumbling. Martin used the seconds the civilian had bought him to grab the chair's back legs and, using the full strength of his arms, tear them off.

He fell backwards, and winced at the impact on his spine. But now he could get his arms under the chair and his legs, and he did so just as the guard was kicking his way out from under de Guamas and fingering the trigger of his rifle.

Martin scrambled forward and broke the remains of the chair back across the Spaniard's head, splintering it and freeing his hands even more. He picked up one of the chair legs he had torn off and, while the guard was still recovering his wits, drove the sharp end into the back of the man's neck.

[Lorpius Prime]

Three more stabs and the guard had stopped moving. Gulping air, Martin fumbled around the dead man's clothes for his knife—a smaller one than the interrogator had carried—and used it to saw through the rest of his bindings. Then he did the same for de Guamas, who was also gasping for breath, in between fits of crazed laughter.

"I never… never would have thought to just break the furniture," he grinned, showing bloody and now nearly toothless gums.

Martin shook his head. He felt just as elated as the civilian, but knew that they were far from free.

"Check Pierson," he said, putting the knife into the other man's hand. Then he reached for the dead guard's rifle.

He had just barely put his fingers on it, however, when the interrogator returned, rounding the corner into their row of crates and looking alarmed; he had probably heard the scuffle. Martin swore and snatched up the rifle. But rather than attack them, the interrogator fled back into the warehouse, shouting.

Martin didn't follow. He checked the weapon to be sure it was loaded, then glanced back to de Guamas. The civilian was leaning over Pierson, shaking his head.

"He is not breathing," he said. Martin bit his tongue and fell into a shooting stance facing the end of the row.

"See if—"

A bear roared. Martin stopped talking; he and de Guamas looked at each other, swollen eyes wide as they could be.

Martin was sure it had been a bear. He had no idea why such an animal would be here in a Madrid warehouse, but he had heard that noise before. It had frightened him as a small child when he and the other orphans from his ward had been treated to visit to the London Zoo and a giant Canadian bear had attacked the walls of its cage while Martin stood right outside. The aristocratic couple which had donated the money for the excursion had been disappointed by the children's level of gratitude and there had been no repeat trips.

The bear roared again, and it had moved closer. Martin shook his head clear of his memories and set his feet again. He and de Guamas were backed up against a wall with no other way out except the one open end of the row. They could probably have crawled up and over the crates, but it would have taken several minutes to scale them, and Martin doubted they had the luxury of such time.

"Arm yourself," he said to the man behind him, and Charles de Guamas barely squeaked in reply. Martin hoped the man could find some sort of weapon in one of the crates, but wasn't going to count on it. He sighted the rifle as another roar tore the air from just beyond their row.

[Lorpius Prime]

What came around the corner to face them was not a bear. It was a monster.

Martin was a very practical man who had no use at all for superstition, but "monster" was the only way his mind could describe what he was facing. It had some resemblance to a human, but only vaguely. Its ears were too high on its head and pointed, and it had an elongated snout beneath yellow eyes which shone faintly in the dim warehouse light.

Martin fired at it. But he missed, and the monster didn't even blink. Keeping his breathing even, Martin worked the bolt of the rifle, took careful aim at the creature's forehead, and fired again. This time, it did blink, but did not seem to be otherwise affected, and Martin began to sweat as he worked the rifle bolt again. The monster snarled at him, and bits of gore twinkled on the fur beneath its chin.

Martin fired again, and this time he was certain he hit the beast somewhere in its neck. It coughed, once, but did not bleed or fall. Instead, it roared again, sounding just like a bear, and displaying bigger teeth than Martin had ever seen on any animal. It started to move toward Martin, moving with a hobbling gait on legs far outsized by its arms and torso. Yet it was deceptively fast, and Martin only had time to reload his weapon and fire once more, point blank, into the creature's chest.

It ignored the wound and seized the rifle. Clawed fingers the size of sausages closed around the barrel and jerked it aside. Martin was too stunned by the monster's resilience to let go of the weapon, and he was flung along with it. He slammed into the wall of crates and felt his right shoulder pop out of place. The rifle clattered away with its barrel impossibly bent.

Martin stared up at the thing which had just survived two heavy caliber bullets from close range to its vitals. It was half-turned toward him, and raised a giant fist, presumably to finish Martin off, when de Guamas attacked. The civilian had found a weapon after all, and he came at the monster swinging—of all things—an enormous candelabra. Unfortunately, the monster saw him coming, and diverted itself to stop de Guamas' blow short by grabbing and breaking his arm below the elbow. De Guamas dropped the candelabra with a shriek.

[Lorpius Prime]

The monster jerked his arm downward, breaking de Guamas' again, and bringing the whimpering man to his knees. The creature raised its other fist, this time to crush de Guamas while he was held in place.

Martin cracked it over the skull with the candelabra. It felt like hitting a solid piece of rock, but even so the monster released de Guamas and screamed once again. The candelabra came away covered in some sort of black ooze; Martin ignored this and hit the creature again. It struck across the monster's face and made a bizarre sizzling noise, and now Martin could see that the ooze had been the beast's fur melting to the candelabra.

It didn't simply accept these blows, however, but swung at Martin. Claws tore through his shirt and into the meat of his left arm and chest. Martin winced as the entire weight of his makeshift club fell on his dislocated right shoulder, but he raised and battered the monster with it once again despite the pain. This time he struck one of the beast's yellow eyes, and it howled, swiping at Martin in half-blinded rage.

They traded blows for a few moments, but the monster's quickly became less powerful and wildly aimed as it shrank before Martin's onslaught. Martin, for his part, had moved somewhere entirely beyond the fear and rage he should be feeling, but battered away at his opponent in determined silence.

Finally the monster collapsed, broken and burnt beyond recognition, in a heap at Martin's feet. Martin dropped the candelabra on top of it, and then followed the beast to the ground.

[Lorpius Prime]

He lay there for several minutes, not making a sound despite the blood soaking through his clothes. He could see Pierson, dead pale and still in his chair, and wondered if he was going to meet the same fate. Somehow, the thought didn't bother him at all right at the moment.

Then someone was lifting him up, pulling him to his feet, or, at least, to his knees. Martin sighed as his right shoulder popped back into place and de Guamas threw Martin's lacerated left arm across his own back.

"Come on, Captain," the man said, "we need to leave."

Martin nodded, and leaned into de Guamas as they both struggled to rise to their feet. Martin's bloodied legs were starting to hurt now, but he did his best to ignore the pain. Instead, he focused on the pistol de Guamas held in his good left hand.

"Where did you get that?" he asked.

"He was carrying it," de Guamas waved the weapon at the ground. Martin looked down.

The corpse at his feet was that of a man. A bruised and bloodied man with one side of his skull caved in. The candelabra lay beside him, still covered with oily, burnt hair, but there was no sign of the hulking monster which Martin had been battling. Martin stared at this for a moment.

"That makes sense," he said at last. He would never be able to remember why he had.

"I am quite certain, Captain Holland, that nothing makes sense right now," de Guamas said, trying to nudge Martin to turn around and walk for the exit. "But I am also quite certain that if we don't leave soon, someone else is going to kill us."

"No," Martin said simply, and nodded. "We killed their chief. We won."

"What?" de Guamas was puzzled.

Martin pointed at the body with his right hand, "Carlos Sánchez. We killed him. He was here. He's dead."

De Guamas stared for a moment, then shook his head abruptly, "Nevertheless, we should go. Now."

Martin nodded, then, leaning heavily on de Guamas who still had good legs, began shuffling out of the warehouse.

There were only three rows of the crates. The entire front half of the warehouse had been turned into something like an office, with chairs and tables still spread with documents scattered around. Whoever had been there before had left in a hurry. Some of the crates at the front were torn open, showing the grenades and Mausers that Martin had speculated about to Major Plaskett.

One of the crates, however, did not contain rifles. It was a big upright one, like those which had walled in Martin and de Guamas, and it contained the remains of Private Hart. The young soldier had been nearly torn in half, and flesh stripped from his bones. Martin knew the grisly image was going to occupy his nightmares for years, even if he could stare utterly dispassionately at it now.

"Come on," de Guamas pleaded. "We must get to safety. Come on."

Martin nodded again, and moved his feet so that de Guamas didn't have to drag him the entire way. The two left the bloody warehouse and made their slow, staggering way to safety while the full face of a silver moon hung over head.

End