Phillip leapt over the low garden fence and flung himself at the side door. He didn’t have time for subtlety—making a sweep of the perimeter and checking the windows for Nazi guests. He pounded flat-palmed against the wooden door, and only the rasp of panicked breath in his throat kept him from screaming—but the door easily gave way.

Unlocked. No one was on the other side.

Phillip plunged inside and slammed the door shut, then leaned against it to catch his breath.

No footsteps, no one calling out to see what all the commotion was about. His pulse buzzed in his ears, but he heard no other sounds. No shuffling chairs or scraping plates or Nazi boots pacing the halls. The farmhouse was supposed to be occupied—Al had assured him of that. They would let him in and show him to the root cellar, and there he would wait until his contact from the Magpie’s network arrived.

Phillip sniffed the air. It smelled faintly rotten, like someone had left food out.

The vestibule branched off toward a modest kitchen and breakfast nook. He stepped through the archway; sure enough, a half-eaten meal was scattered across the table. Toast with bite marks. A breakfast sausage, sliced and swirled through wilted sauerkraut. A few flies lurched up and scattered as he approached, but otherwise, the house was dead.

Phillip swallowed the fear balled up in his throat and continued toward the foyer. There, the front door stood open, frosty air drifting in. He checked his corners, then approached the door. Were those—claw marks along its edge?

In the front parlor, the last gasps of a fire sputtered and coughed in the fireplace. Phillip grabbed the iron poker to prod the embers—somehow, it seemed even colder in here than outside—then hefted the poker. The army had issued him a sidearm, but he liked the weight of the poker in his hand. It felt more immediate in the narrow farmhouse. Poker first, he continued his slow tour of the lower floor.

The root cellar door was wide open in the hall, and leading down into it, like teeth ringing a maw, were sharp, jagged streaks of blood.

His afternoon MRE lurched back up his throat, but he forced it down. He had to think logically about this. A problem set—he could puzzle this out. Whoever the assailant was, they hadn’t left bloody tracks exiting the cellar. Maybe there was an exterior cellar hatch they’d left through. They’d have no reason to stick around unless they knew he was coming, but if they were expecting him, why not clean up the mess? Wouldn’t they want everything to look in order?