As it is, our group is to rest at a safe house not far from our drop site; come morning, as the nameless agents go their separate routes, I’m to sit and wait for Bram’s noon return from his meeting with another contact—for a separate mission, he’s said. Then we’re to bus westward to the city of Utrecht, where a newsstand vendor possesses the latest clues for finding Arie.

Of course, I have every intention of reporting to that stand, just not with Bram. Once I slip away to grab the earlier bus, based on the pocket schedule I was issued, I’ll have a two-hour lead to track down Arie first.

I’d prefer days to hours. But it’s something and, so far, the best I’ve got. Outside of a weapon, that is, which I pray I won’t need for anything beyond the practical.

Stored in the smallest of my jumpsuit pockets, my folding knife is sharp enough to free me of my parachute if tangled in a tree. I suspect the other operatives were assigned weapons of their own. Unlike me, Bram was also given a spade with a removable handle for burying our gear. Similarly, when we were issued special pills tonight, I received only two of the three types he received. Supplies were mistakenly short of the white ones, I was told. The “knockout drops” would put a person to sleep for a solid six hours.

Could someone suspect I might use one on Bram?

The red light now shifts to amber.

My pulse skips a beat.

The dispatcher half cups his mouth with his free hand. “Over target in ten minutes!” he projects above the engines’ roar, then sets aside his thermos as the agents swing into motion. Evidence they’ve all done this before.

Our packs and straps are rechecked—there are no reserves, after all—and we each hook onto a static line to ready our chutes for self-deployment. Where the ball turret originally lay, the dispatcher unseals the floor hatch dubbed the “Joe Hole.” Cold, deafening air blasts through.

“Action Station Number One!”

My nerves heighten to an all-new level as I follow the men’s lead in queuing up. The first agent sits on the floor and, despite the airstream, hooks his legs over the rim of the short cylindrical opening. The second agent lowers behind him, prepared to scoot forward, followed by Bram, then me. With trembling hands, I confirm my satchel is secured to my leg. Meanwhile, the dispatcher positions a large metal capsule near the edge to be dropped with its own chute. No doubt the container is chock-full of weapons and tools requested by the Resistance, or even by the operatives here.

Perhaps it holds the very gun meant to take out—

“Remember, now,” Bram hollers to me. “I’ll be down before you, so I can assist if you’ve had any trouble with the landing!”