The squad paddled across the Indian River, the long sound that separated Hutchinson Island from the mainland. The blacked-out town of Fort Pierce lay ahead. Tonight the town was meant to be a German submarine base, and each company had different objectives to take.

If only Clay could engage in conversation to distract him. But his mind latched on to that night in the garage. Usually his memories stopped at his discovery of the traitorous pair.

Not the fight. Not the tire iron.

If Ellen’s screams hadn’t brought out Daddy and Mama, Clay would have used that tire iron. What if he’d hit Adler on the head? What if he’d died? Clay would have committed murder.

He tried to calm his breath as he scooped saltwater over and over.

Daddy had wrestled Clay back. Clay would have overpowered his father and resumed his attack on his brother if not for Mama.

Sweet Mama shoving a shotgun into Clay’s chest, tears streaming down her face. “If you kill him, you’ll go to the electric chair. I’d rather shoot my own son than see that happen. I won’t lose both of you.”

Clay squirmed in his damp fatigues, and his heart wrenched. He’d been gravely wronged that day, but he’d also committed a grave wrong.

“Dear Lord,” he whispered, then silenced himself. Lord, I’m guilty too. Forgive me for hurting my brother, for wanting him to die.

His chest folded in on itself. Did Adler feel the same swamping guilt when he contemplated his sins? Did Wyatt? Because it felt awful.

Several pats on his side of the raft. He was paddling too hard, and he slowed down. He had to set aside his turmoil and focus on the mission.

A pier came into view, and they paddled the raft up onto land to the left of the pier.

Clay checked for patrols while the squad stashed the raft among bushes.

Everything looked as it did on the map in briefing. City Hall lay about five blocks away by a zigzag path.

Taylor knifed his hand west, and the Rangers ran. As scout, Clay led, with the lieutenant behind him. He paused at the corner and peeked around, but the street was deserted, and he only heard a radio playing “Begin the Beguine.” The residents probably knew to stay inside when the Scouts and Raiders came to town.

Clay led the men one block north. Motion ahead, and he signaled for the squad to take cover. They pressed into doorways and behind palm trees.

Six dark figures with the unmistakable silhouette of the M1 helmet. “Ours,” he whispered.

A few blocks north, another block west, across the railroad tracks, and City Hall rose before them, a two-story Mediterranean-style stucco building with arched windows and a tile roof.