Red Rainbow G Johanson (i am malala young readers edition .txt) 📖

had heard César’s secretary mentioned by the squad who searched the building. Stunning beyond words was the assessment. The young Amazonian who walked through them was that. They blocked the path of other workers, presenting token resistance before letting them through. They parted like the Red Sea for her, only one of them standing his ground a little longer before going with the collective mood. She brought out the gentlemen in them, particularly in the one who had tried to hinder her. Everybody who went inside was doomed. This beautiful lady seemed a tragic loss. Light pink skin, ice blonde hair, coiffed at the best salons to maximise its volume and a trendy curl, spider lashes bringing out those doe eyes even more. Sex on legs – and what legs. The heels pushed her over 6ft, but she was still a tall lady without them. She was Aryan to the core, a tragic sacrifice. Her admirer suggested they have her arrested that evening in conjunction with the investigation into César and then come back tomorrow to burn the place down.

“Were any of the concertgoers spared?” was the reply from one of his colleagues, a fair retort. There had been men and boys there who didn’t want to be in France, some who didn’t want to fight at all. One soldier had been disciplined and almost got himself in real trouble for failing to find undesirables in house searches during purges that other people found straight away (his superiors checked up on him, aware of his feelings about what they were doing). He had tried to spare the lives of their enemies and look where that got him. War was war, Miss Cartier’s beauty changing nothing. The good, the bad, the guilty, the innocent, all died if their cards were marked. There was a lesson for her in the next life; be careful who you work for.

If the number inside exceeded 87 (which seemed doubtful given the numbers that had walked past them, 60 at most) then they could leave it at that. Any shortfall would be made up by rounding up the required number and labelling them as Communists behind this massacre.

The two vans arrived as it struck nine as arranged. The drivers stayed behind the wheel as the cans of petrol were unloaded like clockwork, the placards all dropped to remain here as ‘evidence’ of the culprits, Communists opposing Capitalism as per usual, just a little more violently this time. They had their guns ready to herd anyone inside who tried resisting. They just had to go and secure all exits, and then the bonfire would begin.

Hilaire gave Florence the nod when she saw them enter the grounds with cans of petrol in their hands. These men had looked into their history for inspiration, the Reichstag fire an example of committing a crime and setting up their political enemies for their own offence to destroy them. They were copying it pretty much beat for beat without adding much to it. History had other important lessons to learn for those willing to go further back. Countries could last forever. Empires always fell. Germany could survive the fall that was coming. The Reich could not. Florence’s lesson in their own fragility had not permeated through either. This next lesson they faced would be more effective, instant karma. Hilaire could have stopped them herself without killing them. She just wasn’t inclined to. This was easier.

This was different to the men at the theatre. This was a death squad. Not just that, it was a particularly bad death squad. Bruno Keller had led a death squad against her old group down South, but that was like hunting like. And an epic mismatch that could only end one way. Keller led himself and his men to death yet retained some humanity, some capacity for mercy – in retrospect, Hilaire felt she had been crueller to him than he deserved. He would not have led this operation targeting civilians en masse. Fire was one of the worst ways to go too. No, she had no qualms about letting Florence deal with them. She was more worried about Florence behind the wheel, the pair of them needing to take a vehicle each to dispose of the bodies and the vans. The Germans would be leaving in their getaway vehicles after all, just not in the way that they planned.

Chapter 19

Salvage Mission

One of Scramblers neighbours saw him returning home late in the afternoon and crooked a finger and had him join him on his doorstep for a word. Scrambler relayed this to his guests, amused by the conversation. He was friendly with Old Jacques who teased him about the number of women who’d been seen coming and going from his home, quite a difference to the norm. There was a hint of a warning for Scrambler in this observation that he missed – it had been noticed. Scrambler told Patience what he’d told Jacques, that he’d opened a brothel in preparation for the Allied arrival. He guffawed as he told her this, seemingly oblivious that his joke placed all of his female guests and visitors in unflattering roles. He’d spent another useful day hunting down any Germans, preferably in their vehicles. Seeing them parked up was the best, Scrambler making sure to dawdle tying his laces close to them before watching them splutter off with a fucked engine. He was at least doing something. The same was true of Plague, as far as they knew. Hector too, who was keeping away for the moment. It was the best tactic to employ, to only come and see them if there was something significant to tell them.

Marcella and Hilaire and Florence had the riskier missions. Marcella returned to work a dinnertime shift with plans to ask around about Maurice Cassard. She had contacts in high and low places. Patience was concerned that uttering his name would raise suspicions about her, but Marcella was