It was possible that it was a trap. It was possible that there were ranks of Gestapo or gendarmerie hidden in that building like a ravenous spider waiting to devour prey that ventured too close. Waiting to ensnare the unwary into their web of torture and depravity.

She frowned. Given the number of canisters that had been dropped prior to her own jump, given the time her descent had taken and the time she had been exposed on that field, hiding in an abandoned cottage seemed an ineffective way to hunt. More likely the people whom she would find assistance from were hidden within.

Sophie moved out from the protection of the trees, hurrying across the open expanse of farmyard. She ascended the cottage steps, the tired wood creaking beneath her weight. Very slowly, she lifted the latch of the door and pushed it open. There were no shots, no shouts, and no one appeared to challenge her. Sophie stepped forward into the cottage, purposefully leaving the door open to facilitate a quick escape, and tried to see into the darkened space.

For she wasn’t alone. The scent of unwashed bodies was detectable under the mustiness of a building closed for too long. Someone coughed in the darkness, the sound small and frail. Sophie fumbled in her coveralls pocket for her small torch. She flicked it on and nearly came out of her skin. At least two dozen pairs of eyes gazed back at her, set into gaunt, pale, terrified faces, and not one older than the age of ten.

“Are you here to take us to the funeral?” The question was thin and reedy and had been asked by a small girl who crept forward a step.

“The funeral?” Sophie repeated. What the hell had she stumbled into? “Are you here alone?” she asked the group, trying to understand what was happening and who these children were. “Where are your parents?”

The girl scuttled away back into the safety of her comrades, what looked like fear stamped across her features. One of the smaller children started to cry.

“Do you need help?” Sophie tried. “Can I—”

“Who are you?” The demand came from the open door, a figure in a bulky coat silhouetted against the pale light of the moon outside. He was holding a gun—Sophie could see the dull gleam of the barrel.

“You first.” Sophie switched off her light and slid in front of the children. She adjusted her grip on the torch. Not much of a weapon but it was better than nothing. She’d worked with less.

“Get back against the wall.” The gun barrel twitched toward the side of the room. “Now.”

“I’m not moving—”

The girl who had asked the question suddenly detached from the cowering group of children and threw her arms around the man’s waist with a torrent of barely comprehensible words.