My face snaps up. A Luger is pressed to the civilian’s temple, his fedora now lying on the ground. The captain peppers the man with what I believe to be questions. To my mind, they’re barely audible, as the earlier executions have returned in flashes. My muscles clench, waiting for the blast. The blood. The crumpling of another body.

Then the captain tilts his head. All goes silent until he sneers.

A decision made.

He jerks his pistol toward the truck. At the directive, soldiers hustle to the suited man and escort him onto the back of the vehicle. He’s been spared. A cause to rejoice if not for imagining what might await him. Possibly no better for those of us left.

The officer confers with the guard. From what I can tell, he’s asking if the remaining passengers have been thoroughly checked. The soldier replies in the affirmative—too boldly and swiftly, I fear. I stare back at the ground, preparing to be grilled.

There are more puffs from the officer’s pipe. A torturous pondering. What follows is a nod, presumably, because in a burst of shouts, the guard ushers us back onto the bus as if herding cattle into a pen.

By the time I lower onto my seat, still fighting to control the quaking in my limbs, the other vehicles are rumbling away. Only the man’s hat remains, the solitary clue that anything happened here at all.

Tears rush to my eyes from shameful relief but also from potential blame, over a chance he was mistaken for the wanted fourth.

Quivering breaths draw my ear. Across the aisle, a matronly woman presses a hand to her window. I trace her attention to the other side of the street. Among the onlookers, the peach-dress girl stands with her bicycle, fist over her heart and smile wavering. She appears to say goodbye, her purpose as a distraction served.

It’s strangely comforting to know with certainty that I’m one of many here playing a role, harboring secrets, and with every reason to be petrified.

Chapter 53

During the hour-and-a-half long ride to Utrecht, doubts gather like storm clouds, dark and ominous. The fact I made it out of the village isn’t enough to ensure I’m in the clear. Since meeting with my contact might now be riskier, I consider a delay of hours. The longer I wait, however, the greater the chance that word of the field incident will surface and spread, potentially losing Arie in every way possible.

My decision is plain.