Sniper's Justice (Caje Cole Book 9) David Healey (little bear else holmelund minarik .TXT) 📖

soldier strode toward her, his deadly rifle with its telescopic sight slung over one shoulder. The guards had no intention of interfering. In fact, they seemed intimidated by the sniper. One of them intently studied the roof beams.

“There’s nothing here that you would want,” she said. “It is only supplies for the soldiers.”

“Supplies for the American soldiers,” the German pointed out. He reached into the basket and withdrew a jar of blackberry jam. “They do not deserve such luxuries. I will share this with the German soldiers.”

Sister Anne Marie tried to lock eyes with the sniper, hoping that a stern look from a nun might help, but his face remained hard and unmoving. “Whatever you say,” she said.

“I know,” he said. “You are lucky that I am letting you keep any of it for diese Schafe.” These sheep. “You know what sheep are good for, don’t you? Mutton and chops. Sheep are not soldiers.”

With that, the sniper turned and took his time walking out of the church.

Sister Anne Marie felt herself breathing again. Her heart pounded with fear—and anger, which she knew was not an entirely Christian emotion. She took a moment to breathe deeply and compose herself.

“I’d like nothing better than to tell that Kraut to go to hell,” Joey said. He flicked an apologetic glance at her. “Sorry, Sister. No offense.”

“None taken.” She had been thinking about telling the German the same thing, even if she hadn’t spoken it aloud. “Now, let’s see if we can share this among the others.”

Very quickly, the supplies that she had brought were used up. Once again, she had been forced to let the German soldier take what he wanted, which further cut into her supplies. Her medical skills were inadequate to treat the more grievously injured soldiers, who suffered silently. Unless they received real medical care, some might die.

As she and the young soldier passed out the last of what she had brought, she said, “I may have to appeal to a higher authority than these guards.”

“God?” he asked, puzzled.

“No, the German commanding officer.”

Chapter Thirteen

Her mind made up, Sister Anne Marie hurried down the street, dodging glances from the German soldiers she passed. Reluctantly, she had come to the conclusion that she must see the German commanding officer. The prisoners were short on supplies, lacking everything from food to blankets to basic medical attention. Ultimately, the prisoners were his responsibility. Sister Anne Marie could not provide for them, but perhaps he could.

Before crossing the street, she had kept an eye out for the sniper who had harassed her at the church. Sister Anne Marie liked to believe that there was good in everyone, but she had serious doubts about that particular soldier. She spotted a group of soldiers smoking cigarettes, bouncing on the balls of their feet to stay warm in the cold, and approached them.

“I am looking for your commanding officer,” she announced to one of the young soldiers who appeared more cordial than the others.

“He is in that big house there,” said the soldier, pointing to what Anne Marie knew to be the mayor’s home before he fled. A look of concern crossed the soldier’s face. “Is everything all right, Sister?”

“I am going to see your commanding officer on behalf of the American prisoners,” she said.

“Are you sure that you want to do that?”

Nearby, one of his companions guffawed. “You won’t get very far with Colonel Lang. He doesn’t like civilians—or nuns.”

But she remained undeterred. “Why wouldn’t I go to see him? He is in charge, isn’t he? I must discuss the care of the prisoners with him.”

“In that case, I wish you luck,” the young soldier said, shaking his head. “But if I were you, I would not argue too hard on behalf of the Americans.”

The young soldier’s comments had not been encouraging, but she continued toward the mayor’s house, apparently now occupied by the commanding officer. Looking more closely, she could see two soldiers standing guard beside the door.

The mayor, along with the priest and the two town constables, had fled ahead of the Germans, leaving the villagers to fend for themselves without their leaders. Considering that the house was the grandest in the village and centrally located, it made sense that the German commander had moved in.

She approached the guards, who had been slouching against the wall, but now stood up straight as she walked toward them.

“What is it sister?” one of the guards asked brusquely.

“I am here to see your commanding officer.”

“Colonel Lang is busy.”

“It is important.”

The soldier stared at her for a long moment, but she did not lower her gaze. She suspected that if she had not been wearing a nun’s habit, she would have been sent on her way—or worse. He had not lowered his weapon.

“Wait here.”

“Bless you,” she said.

The soldier glanced at his companion, as if silently warning him to keep an eye on her, then went inside. He was back a minute later.

“Colonel Lang said he can spare five minutes for you, and no more.”

She followed him inside. Immediately, she was struck by the transformation of the mayor’s house, which had once been a respectable middle-class home with fine furniture and carpets, and even a few oil painting on the walls, valuable old landscapes that had been handed down through the family. Much of the village’s business had been conducted there in the home’s comfortable atmosphere, usually in the mayor’s study on the first floor.

Now, the mayor’s house was a shambles. Snow and mud had been tracked across the floors and carpets. Equipment and even cartridge boxes covered the tables and chairs. Windows bristled with machine guns, some of the glass broken out. The oil paintings were all gone, stolen along with anything else of value.

She was ushered into the mayor’s study, where some of the furniture had been broken up and was now burning in the fireplace in an attempt to keep the winter chill at bay. That wasn’t an easy task, considering that one of the windows