Louis, desperately trying to escape, twisted and arched his head toward Madeleine.

Ollie clenched his fists.

In one fluid move, Dietrich removed his pistol and aimed at the squirming hog.

Madeleine, reaching Dietrich, pounded her hands against the Nazi’s chest.

Dietrich snarled. He cocked back his arm and struck Madeleine with his pistol, snapping the woman’s head back and tumbling her to the ground.

Ollie scanned the barn. A rake. Mushy potato piles. Broken boards. Above him, hanging from an iron hook, a broken scythe missing its handle, the blade chipped and rusted. He grabbed it anyway.

Madeleine slowly raised her head. Dry leaves clung to her hair. A wad of saliva hung from her lower lip. Her chest heaved as she sucked in air. Somehow, she managed to get to her feet. She wavered, as if she were about to fall, then approached Dietrich.

The Nazi shook his head. The hog wriggled in his grasp.

Madeleine, her hair wicked with blood, stepped to him. “S’il vous plaît. Libérez-le.”

Dietrich pointed the pistol at her face.

She closed her eyes. Her hands trembled. But she held her ground.

If it weren’t for Louis’s squeals, and the fact that Dietrich had his back turned to him, Ollie couldn’t have approached without being detected. For the moment, a squirming hog and a bold Frenchwoman had Dietrich’s full attention. At least until he pulled the trigger. And it would all be over—Louis’s squeals, Madeleine’s cries. Ollie limped faster. His pulse pounded in his ears. Ten yards. Five yards. Then gravel crunched under his boots.

Dietrich jerked. Pupils widened. A scowl flared. He turned his weapon.

Ollie swung back. He lurched forward and brought the rusted blade down over the man’s hand. He expected a discharge of gunpowder and braced for a bullet to pierce his rib cage. Instead, a loud snap, like a hickory branch that had been swung against the base of a tree.

Dietrich howled. The pistol fell.

Ollie glanced at the Nazi’s hand, a thumb cocked at an obtuse angle, as if he had suddenly grown an extra joint. He expected Dietrich to run. Retreat. At the very least, raise his hands to surrender. Because, Ollie believed, that is what a typical human would do. But he quickly realized that the Nazi was no ordinary man when the German came at him like a Greco-Roman wrestler. Hands extended. A bone, resembling a bloodied piece of chalk, protruded from his thumb.

Okay. It’s you or me. Ollie swung. As the blade cut through the air, a sick feeling flooded his gut. He had underestimated Dietrich’s quickness. And aimed too high.

Dietrich ducked, shot forward, and landed his shoulder into Ollie’s leg.