The Saboteurs (Men at War 5)

And the door swung inward.

He entered the flat and slammed the door shut behind him, the bolt clicking back in place.

It was even darker inside the flat, but the absence of light only served to heighten Canidy’s sense of smell. And he could very much detect the sweet, delicate scent of a woman.

He stumbled around in the dark till he found—actually, ran into—the lamp where he remembered it being and clicked it on.

The flat, nicely furnished with ornate old furniture covered in well-worn fabrics and soft leather, opened onto a large main room, off of which were two smallish bedrooms, a single bath with a toilet and a shower, and a kitchen. There were dark hardwood floors throughout, as well as thick woolen rugs. A marble fireplace topped with a four-by-five-foot mirror graced the main living area.

He made a beeline for the head.

The leak surprised even him with its duration; he considered timing it with his wristwatch chronometer. He pledged never to pass another crapper without at least considering how full his bladder might be and the distance to the next crapper should he choose not to stop.

When he had finally finished and went to wash his hands, he caught himself making a massive yawn. Now he did check his watch.

Only eight-fifteen? Jesus, this has been a long day—didn’t think we’d ever get wheels-up out of Casablanca this morning—and she may not be here for some time. Wouldn’t want to miss what could be a long, passionate night….

He walked to the couch, turning out the light as he passed the lamp.

He yawned again, and shortly after he lay down and his head hit the tasseled pillow he was snoring.

As Ann Chambers rounded the darkened street corner, she caught her right heel in a crack in the sidewalk that had been left uneven by the bombs of the Luftwaffe.

“Shit,” she whispered in her soft Southern drawl.

When the heel caught, it had stuck fast, and her foot had come completely out of the shoe, causing her to place her stocking-covered foot on the cold ground. She reached down and grasped the heel to pull it free of the sidewalk and found that it had almost completely separated from where it attached to the sole.

The twenty-year-old blonde sighed. This was her second-to-last pair of really nice—and really comfortable—shoes, and she wasn’t sure how soon the replacements she had written home for would arrive. She did a lot of walking—everyone in London did a lot of walking—and for her, comfortable shoes rated high on the list of absolute necessities.

So that she would not tear the small leather tag that barely connected the heel at the back, she put down her heavy, black leather briefcase and used both hands to carefully tug at the heel until it pulled free.

Ann held up the shoe, trying to get a decent look at the damage in the dim light. She thought that there might be a small chance she could repair the shoe herself because she knew there was next to no chance of getting a cobbler, even if she could find one that hadn’t been blown out of business, to do so in a timely fashion.

A nicely dressed middle-aged man approached and stopped.

Great, she thought. Just what I need now….

“Can I be of any help, lass?”

Ann, still kneeling, looked up at him.

“Thank you, but no.”

“You’re sure?”

The only thing I need is protection from strangers who can’t take no for an answer.

“Yes,” she snapped.

She saw him make a face and immediately felt bad. Being frustrated about the broken shoe—not to mention going home to an empty flat—was not his fault.

In a softened tone, she added, “I’m almost home. Thank you.”

He turned smartly on his heel. “Very well.”

As the man wa

lked away, she stood up and looked again at the shoe and still couldn’t tell how badly it was damaged.