Hey guys! So sorry for the little hiatus, but I've been struggling with some health issues that have been slowing the writing process a bit. But that doesn't matter right now, because I've got another chapter ready for your enjoyment! Happy reading!

Here, up above the ground, Francis felt alive. Here, with the engine roaring in his ears and nothing but sky and horizon before him, he was finally able to forget everything. He could put his sister behind him. He could leave Adeline far away.

Right now, for the first time in what felt like forever, Francis was actually happy. He even was able to attempt a small smile. He had almost forgotten what a smile felt like on his lips.

There were still a few moments until the plane loaded with Marines would be flying over the drop zone, so Francis was able to take a moment to breathe. He rubbed his eyes with one hand. He was exhausted. When was the last time he had slept and actually rested? He could hardly even remember. He had been up for weeks preparing the plane, the Marine's gear and his own, going over plans, and arranging safe flight routes. It didn't matter though. The moment I get back, I'm crashing on the first bed that I see, and I'm not waking up until next week.

He chuckled to himself at the thought. Being able to sleep late was such a luxury for him. As if he would be able to. No, when the morning came, he would be back at it, 'pounding the pavement' as they say. He had a job to do after all.

Speaking of jobs, he thought, the drop zone is just about here. Adjust a few knobs, angle the nose down, check your altitude and the speed of your descent. His orders were to fly low, but he wasn't used to flying quite this low. The plane broke through the clouds and dropped down, down, down. Francis eyed his altitude gauge warily. He couldn't go down too fast, or he'd lose control of the plane and they'd all be dead. He couldn't go down too slow, or they'd miss the drop site. This would take a steady and deft hand, along with a wise eye. Francis would have this. Easy.

Down the plane continued. He counted down along with the altitude gauge's needle. One thousand feet, eight hundred, six…

At four hundred feet, Francis pulled the plane up so it leveled out. Bang bang bang he pounded on the glass behind his head with his fist.

It was drop time. Now or never.

The shaking of the plane told Francis that the back door had been opened. He chanced a swift glance back behind his shoulder, and he watched to make sure he saw men making the jump out of the door. His head swiveled down to his left and back. He could see the men drop, and he watched the white parachutes open like mushrooms. He counted, but came up one short. One parachute hadn't opened. Francis felt a rock drop into his stomach. Within seconds the cargo bay was empty, and the door drawn shut. He turned back to the front of the plane, his mouth drawn in a tight line. A pounding on the glass behind his head gave him the go-ahead to climb back into the clouds. Francis swallowed the knot that had formed in his throat and obliged. There was nothing he could do for the unfortunate man now, whoever he was. He gently pulled up on the controls, and the plane started to climb, but a sharp crack sent Francis' pulse racing.

"You have got to be kidding me!"

The plane's nose tilted up sharply. The Marine in the cargo bay tumbled to the back and slammed into the door. Francis could hear the man's screamed obscenities, and something about a broken nose, but he was far more concerned with the stream of bullets that were hot on his tail.

An idea popped into his head. It was crazy. The kind of crazy that just might work.

Francis gripped the wheel of the plane so hard that his knuckles went white.

"Hang on!"

-x-x-x-

The little French village down below was nestled deep in the green country hillside. In all the years of its existence, the tiny village had never been touched by the horrors of war.

That is, until the Germans drove in through the front gate.

Now, the village was crawling with soldiers screaming on radios, toting rifles and ammunition, and manning and feeding an anti-aircraft gun that was intent on bringing the enemy aircraft that was flying overhead down to the ground in flames.

There was not a French villager to be seen. The streets were empty, as if the village had never been inhabited at all. They were all cowering in their homes, terrified. Someone had seen the parachutes drop, and news of the Allied help that was surely coming spread through the village like wildfire. Whispers of liberation from these German animals that destroyed their village and livelihoods slipped through cracked doors and drifted around shadowed corners.

At the sound of the anti-aircraft gun roaring to life, nearly every villager's knees hit the ground to pray for the safety of their saviors, who were riding in on the eastern wind.

After a few painstaking minutes of gunfire, shouts of victory could be heard from the Germans, and jeep engines were fired to life.

Men shook their heads in the darkness. Children cried, and their mothers hushed them hurriedly. No one wanted to say it. Someone finally stated the obvious.

"They must have shot it down and now they're going to go and look for any survivors. If God has any mercy, he would let those poor souls die in the crash."

A woman stifled a wail.

-x-x-x-

No, this is NOT how I'm going to die. I am NOT going down now. I REFUSE to die like this!

Francis put everything the plane had into a right bank, narrowly missing a stream of red-hot bullets that would have torn right through the cockpit, but now they peppered his tail as he brought the plane down and on a hard left. No matter what he did, he couldn't seem to shake the hostile fire. If he was in his own plane, he could weave his way free, but in this cargo plane, he felt cumbersome and sluggish. Take a turn too hard, and down they would go. His only option was to dodge the bullets for as long as he could until he flew out of range and into safe air. This was proving to be quite the challenge indeed.

Another string of cracks sent Francis climbing higher into the clouds, but he was too slow in his ascent. The plane jerked and shook, and the Marine in the cargo bay screamed. Francis whipped his head around to assess the damage. "Mon Dieu," he cried.

The entire cargo bay was littered with holes the size of a fist. Metal was twisted and warped. Blood was spattered on the wall. The wounded Marine screamed and writhed where he lay. His hands were trying to hold his intestines inside of his body, but they spilled out and over his shaking fingers.

Francis knew there was no way to save him, that there was nothing he could do, and that he was dead the second the bullet ripped through his body. He knew this, but he couldn't press down the ugly and fiery feeling of remorse that churned in his gut. He wanted to vomit, but that wouldn't do anyone any favors.

Bullets crashed through the front of the plane and through the cockpit, and Francis ducked down low into the seat. Broken glass rained down on his head. Metal twisted in bizarre shapes. Gauge needles flew into the red zones. Black smoke billowed out from behind the plane and stained the blue August sky a sickening gray. The engine whined and groaned like a wounded and dying animal, then altogether gave out. Metal creaked and bent until it broke to fall down to the ground. The nose of the plane dipped sharply. Francis yanked frantically on the plane's controls, but to no avail.

Francis' breath caught in his throat.

He tried to swallow, but a hard knot had just formed in his throat.

A single bead of sweat trickled down his temple.

His heartbeat pounded in his ears.

He pulled up on the controls as hard as he could, straining his muscles, but it was no use.

He was going down, and fast.

If the crash didn't kill him, the Germans that would find him most certainly would. Once they discovered that he was a Resistance member, they would show him no mercy. German treatment toward French Resistance prisoners was infamous for its cruelty.

The ground was growing closer and closer by the second.

His mind raced. He had nothing in his pockets that tied him to home. No letters, no pictures, nothing that he could hold in his hand during the final seconds before impact. He was hardly expecting to be getting shot at, much less shot down. To make up for what he lacked, Francis tried to recall his sister's face. However, all he could muster was a woman with a blankly vacant expression, not the girl he grew up with who held the stars in her clear blue eyes. He didn't want to think of Adeline at all, but her voice wormed its way through his consciousness in spite of himself.

Desperate now, Francis grasped at these memories with all that he had and sat back in his seat. He braced himself for the impact that would come in five…

This is it then.

Four…

This has been my life.

Three…

Estelle knows that I love her.

Two…

I think… I think I may forgive Adeline.

One…

God have mercy, please let me die.

There was a deafening crash and a flash of heat. Francis could feel his bones break as his body slammed into the console when the plane plowed into the earth. The acrid smell of burned hair and skin filled his nostrils. Then, everything went dark, and Francis knew no more.

-x-x-x-

His senses came back to him one at a time. First was his sense of smell.

The cutting smells of burning fuel and singed hair rushed into his nostrils. Then came the sweet scent of freshly upturned earth, followed quickly by the metallic scent of blood. The reek of burnt flesh overpowered everything, making it impossible for Francis to smell anything else after a few moments.

My name is Francis Bonnefoy.

Next came his hearing.

He could hear the pop and crackle of flames. A low rumble that sounded like a jeep engine steadily grew louder until it stopped maybe a few hundred feet away. Distant shouting reached his ears in a language he couldn't quite place… Was it… German? Yes, that was it.

I am a French Resistance fighter and a patriot.

He could feel the weight of his body as it lay crushed against the dash of the plane. His arms were spread above his head. Something sharp was cutting his hands and wrists. Glass from the cockpit. Every shallow breath felt as if knives were being shoved between his obviously broken ribs. His head rested on the controls, but the metal controls felt warm and sticky.

I was in a plane crash while flying American troops into a French village.

A copper taste covered his tongue, along with another taste, this one bitter. He knew the first taste instantly. Blood. The second took him a moment to place. Dirt.

German troops are coming for me.

His eyelids were coated with blood, and when his eyes slowly opened, the blood dripped into his eyes. The images that met his gaze were blurry and discolored, but they sharpened with each blink. The wreckage of the plane bent around him came slowly into focus. He took in his broken and bloodied body, the cracked gauges, the shattered glass, and the wreckage that was scattered on the ground. About a hundred yards away came ten figures running toward him. From this distance, he couldn't make out who they were, but he'd bet his life that they were German soldiers. He'd also bet that they weren't rushing to offer him a gift basket. More likely they bore the gift of a death sentence.

His sluggish mind tried to take all of these senses in as quickly as he could, but he was reeling with the weight of the situation. He was in dire straights, that he couldn't deny. There was no way he could run. He wasn't even sure that he could pry himself out from the plane's twisted wreckage, much less sprint away from ten armed German soldiers who were in much better shape than he.

No, he had only one option now.

That option rested under his seat.

His pistol.

One shot, saved especially for a day like this.

I will not be taken alive.

He tried moving a finger first. It lifted off of the dash of the plane easily enough. Somewhat satisfied and very pressed for time, Francis eased one arm down by his side. He grunted in pain, but pressed the pain to the back of his mind as he reached under his seat for his pistol. His bloody fingertips brushed its smooth wooden handle, and with a grim smile, Francis grabbed ahold of his one hope of escape for dear life.

The Germans were getting closer by the second, nearly a stone's throw away now. He could hear their boots pounding against the ground.

There was no time to lose.

With a shaking finger, Francis pulled the hammer of the pistol back. He heard the round chamber.

The soldiers would be on top of him any second now.

Francis took one deep, yet shaky breath in through his nose.

He closed his eyes.

He raised the pistol.

Pressed the barrel against his temple.

Pulled the trigger.

Click.

Francis' eyes tore open. Terror surged through his body. He pulled the trigger again and again, but his efforts were only met by an infuriating series of clicks.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

There was no gunshot.

There was no bullet in his brain.

"No, no, no! No! No! No!"

He screamed so hard, his throat burned with the force of his voice.

Francis was not dead, but his only plan most certainly was.

Enraged, Francis pushed himself up from his leaning position on the dash of the plane and threw the useless weapon out of the open cockpit.

His way of escape may have been ripped out from under his feet, but that didn't mean that Francis wasn't going to go down without a fight. That fight was coming to him fast.

That fight was here.

Hands ripped him from where he sat in the wreckage and dragged his broken body across the grass. Francis screamed and cursed, and he tried to fight back, but what little he could do was met and squashed with boots to his body, face, and limbs.

Come on Francis, you've got to fight. You're dead if you don't. Maybe you're dead if you do, so what's the difference?

Fight, Francis.

Fight and live.

Fight he did, with everything that he had in his broken, battered, and bloodied body, but the weak punches he threw and the half hearted kicks just weren't enough. The soldiers pummeled him and dragged him into the back of one of the jeeps. His hands were bound. His eyes blindfolded.

They had him. They were going to take him away to be tortured for God only knows how long until he finally would meet his end.

Francis' meager hope dwindled away to nothing.

He was dead already.

I'm so excited, everything is really starting to pick up! I can't wait for you to read what else is in store. Thank you for sticking with this story for so long. You are honestly the best people ever.

Love always,

HarleyMarie