If you haven't read it yet, go check out Chapter Thirteen. It's a real chapter now, instead of an author's note!

And if your memory is anything like mine, then Chapter Five is the place to go for a quick reminder of what's going on here. Happy reading!

Chapter Fourteen:

The Last Blank

Colonel Hogan and Sergeant Carter held on for dear life as LeBeau whipped Herr Wolfe's borrowed car through the streets of Hammelburg at a dangerous speed. Carter was looking a little green around the gills and Hogan was afraid to say anything in case a momentary distraction caused LeBeau to leave the road entirely.

"Et voilà!" LeBeau exclaimed, seeing the train station appear around the upcoming corner. "What time is it? Have we beaten the train?"

Hogan steadied himself against the car door and glanced down at his watch. "Eight fifteen. But he might not have gotten here at exactly eight."

LeBeau leaned out the driver's window as they approached the station. "Where do I park? Zut! There is no space."

"There's always space at the Hofbrau down the next block," Carter offered.

Tugging his hat into position, Hogan grabbed at the door handle. "Slow down LeBeau. I'll jump out here and you guys catch up as soon as you find a place to park."

He was out the door as soon as they had drawn even with the station, but paused for a moment before letting the other two heroes leave. "LeBeau?"

The diminutive driver leaned forward to see past Carter. "What?"

"Park at the Hofbrau. In a real parking space. A legal one. No leaving the car in middle of the road and coming after me. The last thing we need at this point is a parking ticket."

"Fine fine!" LeBeau let out a violent huff of air. "Now go!"

"Go, please." Carter added. But Hogan was already out of hearing range.

The American Colonel skidded to a halt in the middle of the station platform, whirling around to look for any sign of Major Hochstetter. Not that he knew exactly what he'd do when he found him. Punch him in the face?

There were a number of men in uniform scattered around the train, but none of them were wearing Gestapo black. Taking a deep breath Hogan directed himself to the ticket booth.

It was a young woman behind the desk, and he gave her his warmest I'm-friendly-you-can-trust-me smile. "Excuse me, ma'am. I was hoping you could help me with something."

She returned the smile automatically and nodded.

"My employer forgot his briefcase at home this morning, and the cook sent me out to get it back to him. She thought he'd said he was meeting the train here. Have you seen a Gestapo Major Hochstetter around? I was hoping to catch him before he heads off somewhere else."

"Oh! He sent someone else to pick up his mail for him." She pointed in the direction of a doorway at the back of the building. "I'm pretty sure the other man's still here. Maybe he could pass on the briefcase to Major Hochstetter for you. He was going to use the phone in the back room to call the Major, actually."

Hogan's heart leapt into his throat and he had to physically restrain himself from jumping into the air and shouting 'Hooray!'.

"Thanks so much. I'll go get this to him then."

He barely managed to keep his pace to a walk as he crossed the platform and broke into a run as soon as he hit the hallway. There were two open doors showing him glimpses of filing rooms, but the door at the end of the hall was shut.

Yanking open the last door he slid to stop in the middle of the room, taking in the files spread across the desk and the man at the phone on the other side.

At the sound of Hogan's entrance the man turned around, phone receiver dangling from one hand.

"Newkirk!"

The blood drained from Newkirk's face as he stared at Hogan with eyes as wide as an ocean and slowly dropped the receiver.

0 0 0

The memory came back with the force of a freight train.

He was in the barn, on Monday night…

0 0 0

"I was going to try and take you all alive, but I think the Gestapo only need one of you swine to get all the information they need, and who better than our interesting imposter here?"

Gestapo Captain Finck was hauling Newkirk around by the arm like a piece of meat, but the Englander didn't even protest, too shocked to fight back. They'd been on the cusp of winning the gunfight only moments before.

He caught a glimpse of LeBeau crouched down behind a crate on the other side of the barn. The sight of his friend's furious scowl was enough to help him find his tongue.

"It's not really necessary, mate." He choked out. "I'm not that good with details. Couldn't give you much information anyways."

Finck gave him a hard shove, and Newkirk stumbled into the arms of Finck's three remaining thugs. One of them gripped him roughly by the biceps as he twisted in place to look back at the Gestapo Captain.

With a cold smile Finck waved a hand at his men. "Take him out to the truck. These two must be almost out of ammunition. Kill them, and then meet me outside."

Newkirk threw himself forward with all his might, thrashing and fighting to break free as the two other thugs opened fire on the crates where LeBeau and Astor were hiding.

"No! Stop!" he screamed, losing any semblance of calm.

He slammed his head backwards, bouncing off his captor's chin, and then lifted both feet off the floor, kicking out and trying to wriggle free from the larger man. Finck managed to get a grip on Newkirk's collar, but he sunk his teeth into the man's hand in revenge.

"Quit struggling!"

The noise of bullets tearing apart LeBeau's crate was driving him to absolute desperation. Newkirk knew he probably wasn't even making sense anymore, screaming like a banshee and striking out with every bit of movement he could manage. The second thug dropped his gun and flung himself on Newkirk's feet, pining them together so he couldn't kick anymore. Newkirk bucked his hips, managing to twist to the side so the biggest soldier lost his grip on the Englander's arms.

Newkirk hit the ground hard, his shoulder and face slammed into the dirt and making his vision blur.

Thug One bent down to grab him by the hair and Newkirk rolled in his grasp, throwing all his weight against the inside of the other man's over-extended arm.

The sound of the bone snapping was audible and the shooting stopped.

"Argh! He broke my arm!"

All Newkirk could see was the shattered crate on the other side of the barn. He needed to get to LeBeau. It was just hands trying to keep him back, arms locked around his chest holding him in place, someone yanking at his collar so hard he could barely breathe. Everything had funnelled into what was keeping him from his friend. The world was the crate and the fight to get there.

He wasn't even consciously thinking anymore when his knee caught Finck in the stomach and the Captain jumped back. "Fine! Forget those two. We'll torch the place and they'll go up with it."

Newkirk's throat was raspy from strain but he practically shrieked with horror. "No! You can't do that! LeBeau! Louis, you have to shoot them! You have to get away!"

There was a scramble of movement behind the broken crate, and Newkirk heard his friend's voice rise over the noise.

"Hold on, Pierre! We will come get you!"

He strained to look back as they dragged him towards the barn door. He couldn't see LeBeau. He couldn't get to LeBeau.

Gestapo Captain Finck just laughed as they pushed their way into the outside air. "Auf Wiedersehen."

The sound of the door slamming shut was like a death knell.

Newkirk's heart was going a million miles a minute and the cold night air was like an icy slap against his sweaty skin. The world sounded like it wasn't coming in at full-volume and he was having a hard time taking in a full breath.

Finck and his two un-injured men were dragging him further from the barn, bruising him and leaving scratches across all exposed skin as they struggled to keep him under control. Newkirk barely even noticed the pain. All he could afford to acknowledge was the army truck they were trying to drag him to, and the barn door he had to get back to.

It wasn't until Finck kicked him in the side and he accidently bit his tongue that he realised he'd been screaming LeBeau's name over and over. He barely even had a voice any more.

"Get the cuffs on him already!"

They have him down on the ground now and someone is standing on his hand while they try and get the other one locked in place.

The smell of gasoline hits the air and Newkirk literally feels his heart skip a beat. "No! You can't do this! Stop! Please stop! Please…"

Someone hits him in the face so hard he can't see straight. There's hot blood all down his face and he can't do anything except tear at the uniforms hemming him in.

He lurches to his feet, only to be knocked back by a fist in the gut.

"Don't shoot him. I need him alive!"

There's something hard in the hand he latches onto and he fights to turn it on his enemy even though he's not even sure where he is anymore.

Bang!

Now someone else lets out a cry of pain, and for a moment he falters.

It's all the time they need to knock him to the ground and kick him in the head.

0 0 0

Newkirk came back to consciousness slowly. He was so cold and stiff he could barely move. He was lying in the dirt with his hands cuffed tightly behind his back and his feet shackled together at the ankles. Strings of congealing blood were pooling under his face and slowly running away into the grass.

It took a couple tries for him to peel his eyes open. But when he did there was nothing to see. They had dumped him on the ground behind the truck and left the tailgate hanging open.

With a miserable groan Newkirk rolled into a sitting position. His head was pulsing with the force of a pneumatic drill and he couldn't get his fingers to properly obey him when he tried to fiddle with the cuffs behind his back. It was tortuous work sliding the picks from the edge of his sleeve and holding them in place long enough to get the cuffs to snap free. He took a deep breath and rubbed the bleeding welts around his wrists before attacking the heavier shackles on his feet.

When they dropped to the dirt he used the wall of the truck to wobble into a standing position. There was light from the other side of truck and a weird rushing sort of noise that began to draw his attention.

He could hear Finck cursing and shouting something in German.

Newkirk limped around the back of the truck and came to a stop bathed in the light of orange and red hell.

The barn was engulfed in flame.

It was totally consumed in roaring, crackling tongues of fire that licked the walls of the wooden structure from the ground all the way up to the peak of the roof.

Already the beams of the walls were curling and collapsing inward and sending up shooting explosions of sparks.

Patches of dry grass and timber littered the clearing with more fires, like a smoking labyrinth encircling the barn.

Newkirk could see one human through the smoke. A soldier trapped between the barn and a particularly treacherous patch of grass. He was clutching a gasoline can to his chest.

Finck was waving his arms back and forth and yelling at him from a safe distance.

Hypnotically slowly they watched a length of the barn wall peel away from the building and crash to the ground in a rush of sparks. The soldier disappeared beneath the red and black shadows.

Newkirk broke into a run.

"Louis!" His voice was little more than a choked sob, and Newkirk realised there were tears pouring down his face.

He made it halfway across the clearing before Finck noticed him and threw himself in Newkirk's path. The Englander hit at him ineffectively, unable to tear his eyes away from the fire.

"He's in there. I have to get to him!"

"You got out of the handcuffs?" Finck gripped Newkirk's two wrists together and shook the man violently, shouting right in his face. "You're a demon, that's what you are! Your friend killed Lieutenant Keitel in the barn, you shot Pohl in the neck and now Genzken is dead too! You're just a bunch of filthy foreign #*$ and you've left me with just one man. You're a bad luck charm and I'm better off killing you right now."

Newkirk swayed with dizziness, but still tried to get past him. "Please! Louis is in there. Just let me go."

"Your friend is dead. You can join him in a minute when I slit your throat." Finke fumbled with his belt before drawing a black handled hunting knife from its sheath.

Newkirk used his momentary distraction to twist loose and threw himself into the growing smoke that surrounded the barn. He tried to weave his way through the flaming maze but could barely tell what direction he was stumbling in.

Bang!

A bullet whizzed past his head, and Newkirk dropped into a crouch, turning to see Finck's last henchman framed in the smoke behind him.

"Did you get him?" Finck called out.

"I'm not sure."

His eyes were watering like crazy, but Newkirk used trembling fingers to thumb the safety off the other item he had acquired when Finck was momentarily distracted. The man probably hadn't even noticed his gun was gone.

A smoldering timber beside him sent up a fountain of sparks, and Newkirk had to jump to the side to avoid it.

"Gotcha."

The only reason the next bullet didn't hit him was because Newkirk was in the process of turning to face his attacker. He straightened up and fired back.

He must have hit something, because Finck's man tumbled backwards over another pile of burning debris. Newkirk waited a moment, but there were no more shots.

He wiped his sleeve across his face, trying to figure out if he was still facing the barn. He couldn't breathe and everything was a smoky mess of grey, black and red. Newkirk dropped the gun and pressed both hands to face, one covering his mouth and nose, and the other shadowing his eyes.

He staggered onward as fast as he could manage.

And then a drift of smoke moved from his path and he could see ahead. The clearing. The truck.

Finck.

He'd been moving in the wrong direction.

Captain Finck was also shadowing his eyes, staring into the inferno he'd created. "You!"

Newkirk balked, and then took a hesitant step backwards.

But he was too slow, and Finck was on him in a moment. He grabbed Newkirk by the lapels of his jacket and threw him back towards the truck.

Newkirk failed to keep his feet under him and landed on his butt.

"I hate you!" Finck stalked towards him.

The Englander scrambled backwards, too tired and bone-weary to get back on his feet.

"You've ruined everything!"

Finck tried to slam his boot down hard on Newkirk's ankle, but the downed man was too fast and kicked him the shins instead. With a snarl the Gestapo officer dropped to his knees and put the full force of his weight behind his elbow and into Newkirk's solar plexus.

Newkirk saw stars.

The world whited out and then swung back into view a couple times before he realised he wasn't breathing any more.

He couldn't breathe.

Newkirk tore his watering eyes open to see Finck straddling his chest, pressing both hands so tight around his throat he couldn't draw breath.

"Hck."

He reached up one hand to claw at Finck's face, but the Captain only let go for a second to slap it away. Then he twisted his fist around Newkirk's dog tags and pulled them taut so the Englander could feel the metal cutting into the back of his neck at the same time that Finck pressed down on his throat from the other direction.

"I hate you. I hate your people. And your country, and your filthy impure blood…"

He couldn't see anything anymore. It was all going grey.

Finck's words were fading behind the volume of his own blood pounding in his ears.

Newkirk pulled together his last coherent thoughts and threw all his energy into one physical effort. His free hand reached out to the place where Finck just maybe, please God please, might have resheathed his knife.

He'd grown up in the back streets of Stepney, London. He'd witnessed two murders before the age of ten. He'd never ever held the knife himself, but he knew how it was done.

He drove the knife home.

0 0 0

He lay on his back for a long time after that, just letting the chain and the fabric around his neck naturally loosen and fall away from their strangled grip.

When he could lift his head without passing out he rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself up onto his knees.

Across the clearing the barn was gone.

Flames still licked across sections of the grass and set off occasional bursts of sparks, but the building was gone, collapsed into a burning pile of rubble and broken beams.

He watched it until the picture was burned into the back of his retinas and he couldn't even remember what he was looking at anymore.

He might have stayed there forever if a soft metallic clink hadn't drawn his attention to the dirt at his knees. The chain had slipped from his neck and dropped to the dirt. He considered it for a moment, but left it where it had fallen.

In the East the sky was beginning to lighten.

So he pulled himself to his feet and started walking.