Lyons breathed vomit-scented breath in Clay’s face and brought the knife closer to his neck. “I’m looking forward to watching you die.”

“Like the girl . . . in Florida.” Clay ran through all the dirty fighting tactics in his head. None fit. “The girl . . . in Braunton.”

Lyons chuckled, confirming both suspicions. “Your turn.”

Clay’s vision turned gray, and his arm shook with the effort of keeping the knife away. He bumped his hips under Lyons, anything to slow him down.

Lyons readjusted his position, sliding one leg down next to Clay’s.

And he lost.

Clay’s favorite wrestling move. He twined both his legs around Lyons’s knee. Then he jerked Lyons’s leg hard to the side and heaved his hips.

Lyons cried out and tumbled to the side.

Clay scrambled away and gasped for air. Where was his rifle?

With a string of curses, Lyons rose with knife in hand.

There! The rifle lay on the ground, pointing at Clay. He grabbed it by the barrel.

Lyons lunged forward.

Clay spun his rifle around and groped for the trigger.

Then Lyons grunted and halted, his eyes wide in surprise. His body jerked, he grabbed his neck, and he crumpled to the ground.

But Clay hadn’t fired! His finger slipped into the trigger.

Behind Lyons. A man in gray. A machine pistol.

Clay squeezed the trigger.

He hit the man square in the left upper quadrant of the chest, and the man flew backward.

Clay sagged to his knees. He didn’t want to kill the German, but he had no choice.

Before him, Frank Lyons moaned and squirmed.

Clay tossed Lyons’s knife over the side of the trench, then yanked open the pouch for his first aid kit. “Let me see.”

“What?” Lyons grimaced. Blood pulsed between his fingers. An artery had been hit. He’d bleed out in minutes.

Clay tore open a field dressing, applied it to the wound, and clamped Lyons’s hand over it. “Press on this hard. It’ll buy you a minute to pray. Pray God will forgive you, ’cause you’re going to meet him mighty soon.”

Lyons’s lip curled. “You’re not going to try to save my life?”

“Not even Doc Block could do that. And I’ve got a road to block.” Clay unbuckled Lyons’s cartridge belt. The Rangers could use the extra BAR ammo, and he didn’t want to leave grenades with Lyons.

A bloody hand clamped around Clay’s forearm. “That dame in the library—her kid’s mine.”

Clay found himself smiling. “Nope. She’s all mine. Your name dies with you today.”

He broke free, slung Lyons’s BAR over his shoulder, and held his rifle in position. He gave the dying Ranger one last look. “By the way, she forgave you. And so do I.”