Amerikan Eagle

Sam balled his other hand into a fist, punched upward, caught the old man under the chin. The old man grunted in shock, and Sam heard the Legionnaire call out. Sam grabbed the needle, seized the man’s right hand, pulled it forward, took the needle, and slammed it into the hand. The man howled and then the Legionnaire was on him, beating him, and Sam hurt as he punched and kicked, and through the pain, it all felt good.

He had fought back.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Hours later, Sam lay on his side, breathing shallowly, his ribs hurting. He had been dragged from the tattoo room to a place called the cooler, and damn, that was a good turn of phrase, because it was fucking freezing. It was a concrete cell block without a mattress pad, blanket, or pillow, just a covered bucket in the corner for shit and piss, and right now, even though his bladder was screaming for release, he couldn’t drag himself the four or five feet to the bucket.

But he was smiling. Even through the blood and the bruises and the throbbing pain, he was smiling. He had fought back, had caused the German tattooist some serious pain. Sure, maybe someone else would be along eventually to finish the tattoo, but at least Sam Miller, Portsmouth police inspector, hadn’t been completely branded like some barnyard animal.

He tried to shift again, groaned as something stabbed in his side. So, in under two days as a prisoner, what had he learned? A lot. In remote areas of the nation, Jewish refugees were at work, clearing wood, mining ore, cutting stone. Among these refugees, one Petr Wowenstein—aka Peter Wotan—had lived and worked until successfully escaping.

The refugees—how and why did they end up here?

Another intake of breath, another moan.

Yet Sam smiled, for even though he didn’t have all the answers, he had found out a lot. He wondered if ol’ Marshal Harold Hanson would be proud of his probationary inspector. After all, not only had Sam properly identified the city’s latest homicide victim, he had also uncovered a national secret.

Damn, if that wasn’t worth passing probationary status, what would be? Maybe even help him in the Party. Who knew?

He coughed.

Damn, he hurt.

* * *

Somehow he had managed to doze, and when he woke up, he stumbled over to the bucket, aimed into it. Daylight coming through a high barred window allowed him to see that his urine wasn’t stained with blood, which was a good sign. He held up his left wrist. There. A blue numeral three. A permanent reminder of the horror he and so many others were living in. Sam lowered the sleeve and replaced the cover to the bucket and sat down, grimacing at the thudding pain in his ribs.

He looked around the small cell. Something was near the bottom of the wall. He looked closer, saw a set of initials—R.S.—and a Star of David carved in the stone.

A noise, a slight thump.

Something was on the floor. He crawled over, saw it was a hunk of bread with a string wrapped around it. He undid the string, saw the bread open up, and among the smears of margarine was a note:

From O. Good luck.

Otto. The Dutch businessman from Barracks Six. Be damned.

He ate the bread, wincing as his sore jaw worked, and then he tore up the note and ate that as well. The piece of string went into his bucket.

He sagged against the wall, feeling just a bit better, trying to think of what he could possibly do next.

Survive, he decided. Do what the Jews here were doing. Stay alive. Somehow get out and get back to Portsmouth and—

Condemn a man to death, then? Is that what you’re thinking? To escape and condemn someone, hell, maybe even Otto, who befriended you? Is that what you’re going to do? Kill him on the off chance that you can get through the fences and wire and past the guard towers and—

The door was being unlocked. Two Long’s Legionnaires came in, staring at him, wooden truncheons pulled from their belts.

One said, “Get your ass up, come with us, or we’ll beat you somethin’ awful. Got it, boy?”

Sam got up, hurting but happy he could hide his pain from these two thugs.

* * *

They escorted him to a building set apart from the rest, a wooden cottage that wouldn’t look out of place at a lake resort. About him were the sounds of the quarry at work, the growl of the cranes, the thump of the drills, the whine of the cutting tools, and—underneath—the shouted voices of the guards and overseers.

At the cottage, both men stopped. One pointed to the front stoop. “You go on up there, boy, and there’s someone to see you. You step lively, and if you run out by yourself, jus’ so you know…”