France, Beaulieu-sur-Argonne, November 1943

  The truck rattled violently as it barreled down the winding dirt road, each jolt sending a fresh wave of curses from the resistance fighters crammed into the back. It was an old farm truck, held together more by stubbornness than actual engineering, its suspension long since beaten to death by years of abuse. Every pothole felt like a punch to the spine, every rock in the road a fresh insult to their already battered bodies.

  Emmett, wedged into the passenger seat, gritted his teeth as the truck bounced hard enough to nearly lift him off the seat. He grabbed onto the dashboard with one hand, the other bracing against the door, his scowl deepening as he turned to the driver.

  “Jesus Christ, Henri, you tryin’ to hit every goddamn hole in the road on purpose?” he growled.

  Henri, gripping the oversized steering wheel with practiced ease, let out an exasperated huff. “I am trying, mon ami,” he replied, his French accent thick. “It is not the potholes… it is the…” He trailed off, his brow furrowing as he searched for the right word. Finally, he threw up a hand, frustration evident. “The… bounce! This truck has none.”

  Emmett exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing his temple. “Suspension, Henri. The word you’re lookin’ for is suspension.” He shot his companion a sideways glance, shaking his head. “I’d give you more shit, but I got no room to talk with how bad my French is.”

  Henri laughed, nodding in agreement as he leaned forward, sliding the rear window open to check on the men bouncing around in the back. The wind carried their frustrated groans and shouted complaints, mingling with the creaking of wood and the metallic clatter of weapons shifting inside the cargo bed. Henri shouted back in French, his voice carrying over the noise.

  “Try not to lose those crates, or I swear, it would be better if one of you fell out instead!”

  A response came immediately. A hoarse, irritated voice yelling back, “We are all about to fall out! The weapons and ourselves!”

  Henri grinned as he turned back toward the road, gripping the wheel as the truck shuddered over another uneven stretch of dirt. Emmett arched a brow, glancing at him. “What the hell are you smiling about?”

  Henri’s grin widened as he exhaled, his voice full of something close to nostalgia. “Beaulieu-sur-Argonne,” he said. “Where we are going. I have not seen it in some time.”

  Emmett’s brow furrowed slightly, his fingers drumming idly against the side of the truck door. “You sure it’s safe?”

  Henri nodded enthusiastically, the confidence in his voice unwavering. “Oui, I am sure. We are to speak with the priest about storing the weapons. A father Brenard…” He suddenly swerved to avoid a pothole, earning groans from the back, and a glare from Emmett. Henri just shrugged and continued. “It is a good place to lie low for a while. We have had… how do you say… too much excitement in these last few weeks.”

  Emmett snorted. “Yeah, no shit.” His tone was dry, laced with exhaustion, his body aching from more than just the rough road. The past few months had been a relentless blur of ambushes, sabotage, and constant movement. Always one step ahead of German patrols, always running the risk of getting caught with a bullet in the back. He needed a drink, a bed, and he needed it badly.

  The truck jolted again, another sharp bounce sending Emmett’s head dangerously close to the roof. He let out a long, irritated grunt, gripping his seat. “We better get there soon, or I swear to God, I’m gonna lose every damn tooth in my head.”

  Henri chuckled. “Should not be much further, mon ami,” he reassured, his eyes scanning the road ahead. His grin returned, that boyish mischief creeping into his voice. “Ah, Beaulieu-sur-Argonne! Where the alcohol flows like water, the women are shapely, and the beds are soft. Worry not, we will have a good night.”

  Emmett sighed, rolling his shoulders. “Sounds good to me. Been too damn long since I had a drink.”

  Henri nodded. “I feel the same.”

  As they crested a small hill, the landscape opened up, revealing the village of Beaulieu-sur-Argonne nestled in the rolling hills. Even from a distance, it was picturesque. A quiet place untouched by the war, at least on the surface. The houses, clustered closely together, were made of old stone, their red-tiled roofs standing in contrast against the darkening sky. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and cobblestone streets wove through the village, leading toward the modest town square, where the weathered bell tower of the church stood as a quiet sentinel. A narrow river wound through the land beyond, the reflection of the setting sun shimmering on its surface.

  It looked… peaceful. Too peaceful for a place where war had crept into every shadow.

  Henri let out a breath, his fingers tightening slightly on the wheel. “There she is, Mon Ami.” he murmured, more to himself than to Emmett.

  Emmett didn’t reply. He just stared at the village as they descended toward it, something uneasy settling in his gut.

  As the truck rolled into the town, the cobblestones beneath the tires made for a rough ride, but at least it was better than the damn potholes. Villagers looked up as they passed, their expressions wary but not outright hostile. Some recognized Henri, giving him nods of acknowledgment, others quickly retreating into their homes or businesses, disappearing behind thick wooden doors.

  Henri pulled the truck to a stop just outside the old stone church, the engine sputtering into silence with a final cough. The building before them stood like a sentinel. Worn but resolute. Ivy clung to parts of the fa?ade, its stone walls pitted and scarred by time, but the structure itself held firm. A bell tower rose above it, the cross at its peak casting a long shadow down into the square. A few villagers paused to glance their way, then quickly looked elsewhere. War had made curiosity a dangerous habit.

  Henri stretched his arms and dropped from the cab, brushing dust from his coat with casual flicks. He turned back toward the passenger door.

  “Let’s meet the priest, Emmett.”

  Emmett stepped out with a grunt, his boots hitting the cobblestone with a dull thud. He took a quick glance around the square. Narrow alleys, shuttered windows, old stone houses packed close. And then followed Henri toward the sanctuary doors.

  Inside, the church was quiet, the air cool and faintly scented with incense and old wood polish. Sunlight slanted in through the stained-glass windows, casting soft patterns of color across the stone floor.

  Near the altar, an older man was sweeping, the wooden broom whispering across the floor. He paused when he heard footsteps, turning with a small smile already forming.

  “Henri Roux,” the priest said warmly, setting the broom aside. His French was gentle, his voice weathered but strong. “It has been a while. Welcome home, my child.”

  Henri stepped forward quickly and embraced the older man, shaking his hand fervently. “It’s good to see you again, Father Brenard.”

  The priest turned his gaze to Emmett, his smile never faltering. His eyes, though, were sharp, assessing.

  Henri gestured toward him. “This is Monsieur Emmett Granger. He came on his own to assist the Resistance.”

  Brenard inclined his head respectfully. “Then welcome, Monsieur Granger. Thank you for aiding us in these trying times.”

  Emmett offered his hand, not sure what he expected. But the priest’s grip was firm, steady, and warm.

  “Appreciate your help, Father,” Emmett said.

  Brenard nodded. “My part is truly small. Compared to yours, I do very little.” He looked around the sanctuary, thoughtful. “But small acts have their place. Welcome to Beaulieu-sur-Argonne, Monsieur Granger.”

  Emmett nodded once, strangely at ease. He didn’t know why, but something about the priest settled the itch in the back of his skull. He wasn’t just some dusty old man playing at piety. This one seemed to have steel in him.

  Brenard clapped his hands lightly. “Now, enough introductions. Let’s not stand around chatting. You must all be weary. Begin bringing in your…” He paused, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth “…supplies. I have just the place to keep them safe.”

  Henri gave a grateful nod. “Merci, Father.”

  “Of course. There’s a hidden alcove in the cellar. Old wine storage from better times.” Brenard waved them toward the back hallway. “Let’s move quickly, though. No need to draw more attention than we must.”

  What followed was a quiet, methodical process. Emmett and the others brought in crate after crate. Firearms, ammunition, all tucked away in plain wooden boxes. The alcove was tucked behind a false panel at the back of the cellar, cleverly disguised beneath stacked barrels and shelves of dusty communion supplies. The whole thing reeked of damp earth and secrecy.

  Brenard helped where he could, moving lighter boxes and guiding the others with calm efficiency. He made no fuss, no judgment, no whispered prayers about the weapons of death being stored under God’s roof. Only once did he pause, laying a hand briefly on one of the crates before giving a solemn nod.

  When the last box was tucked away, Henri wiped the sweat from his brow and turned to Emmett, breath a little shallow from the lifting.

  “I’ll finish up here,” he said, his tone shifting back into his usual businesslike cadence. “Go to the inn. See about rooms, and of course... drinks.”

  Emmett didn’t need to be told twice.

  He jerked his head toward two of the HeadHunters. “Let’s move.”

  As he headed toward the stairs, Henri called after him. “The others know the place. Auberge du Chêne Blanc. You’ll find it easily enough.”

  Emmett gave a small nod without breaking stride. “I’ll manage.”

  As Emmett led the two men back through the church and up toward the entry, Father Brenard called out gently behind him.

  “Monsieur Granger.”

  Emmett paused and glanced over his shoulder.

  “Rest well tonight. And… be careful with that one,” the priest added, nodding toward Henri with a sly smile. “He drinks as if the bottle owes him money.”

  Emmett gave a dry smirk. “I’ll keep him from starting a bar fight. No promises beyond that.”

  Brenard chuckled, his expression calm. “That’s all I can ask.”

  As Emmett pushed open the heavy church door and stepped back out into the square, he couldn’t help but glance once over his shoulder at the man sweeping near the altar again.

  They strode across the square, the scent of woodsmoke and cooking meat drifting in the cool evening air. Emmett’s boots scuffed against the uneven stones, and despite the exhaustion settling in his bones, the promise of liquor pushed him forward.

  He practically tasted it already.

  The wooden door of the Auberge du Chêne Blanc creaked as Emmett pushed it open, stepping into the warmth of the inn. The rich aroma of baked bread, smoked meats, and simmering stew filled the room, a welcome relief from the damp chill of the French countryside. His boots scraped against the stone floor as he made his way toward an empty table, brushing mud from his worn coat.

  The other two Resistance fighters had already found a server and were busy speaking about accommodations, their tired voices a murmur beneath the occasional crackle of laughter. As Emmett scanned the room, his eyes landing on a young woman.

  She stood at the counter, her dark hair pulled back into a loose braid, and her figure partially hidden beneath a simple wool coat. A woven basket hung over her arm, filled with bread, cheese, and a few other goods. She spoke softly to the innkeeper, her voice carrying the fluid melody of French.

  Emmett paused, looking the young woman over. He smiled to himself and began making his way to the counter.

  "Go on, Granger," he muttered to himself under his breath. "You’ve faced worse odds."

  Emmett strode toward the counter, putting on the easiest grin he could muster. His French was, admittedly, still a work in progress, he understood it well enough, but he leaned into it anyway. Doing his best to sound charming.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle. Vous... êtes belle comme une... um... poisson?”

  The young woman turned slowly to face him, raising an eyebrow. “A fish?” she repeated in flawless English, her tone dripping with amusement. “You just called me beautiful... like a fish.”

  Emmett’s grin faltered, but only for a moment. He chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “Well, I was going for ‘flower,’ but it looks like my French needs some work.”

  The smirk tugged at her lips as she crossed her arms, leaning casually against the counter. “Needs work? That’s the understatement of the century, monsieur. It is, terrible.”

  “Fair,” Emmett admitted, nodding. “But hey, I’m learning. I know enough to get by, at least when ordering food or threatening someone.”

  Her smirk turned into a full grin as she rolled her eyes. “Wonderful,” she said sarcastically. “A man fluent in threats but useless for conversation.”

  “Hey, I didn’t say I was useless,” Emmett quipped, leaning a little closer. “I’m pretty good at paying for groceries.”

  Before she could react, he reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a few francs and sliding them onto the counter.

  Her grin disappeared, replaced by a soft laugh. She shook her head, her braid swaying. “Idiot,” she said, the word light and teasing.

  “Yeah,” Emmett agreed with a grin. “I get that a lot.”

  The innkeeper, a wiry man with a thick mustache, swept up the coins and handed her the wrapped goods. She hesitated before taking them, turning her gaze back to Emmett.

  “You do realize I didn’t ask for your help?”

  “Sure,” Emmett said with an exaggerated shrug. “But I figure a lady like you deserves a little kindness now and then. Besides, I’m trying to make a good impression.”

  She laughed again, shaking her head as she stepped closer. Her voice dropped to a low whisper as she leaned toward his ear. “If you want to impress me, monsieur, perhaps learn some proper French first.”

  Emmett froze for a second, surprised by the boldness of her tone. Then she stepped back, her eyes flicking over him with a teasing glint. “And maybe bother to wash yourself. You smell like... how do you Americans say it? A barn?”

  He looked down at himself, his grin widening as he tugged at his mud-streaked jacket. “It’s been a long week,” he admitted. “But don’t worry, I plan on bathing. Might take me a bit to improve my French, though.”

  “Oh, I can tell,” she replied dryly, lifting her basket. “Good luck with that.”

  She turned toward the door, pausing for just a moment. “Goodbye, foolish American,” she said with a little wave.

  “Bye,” Emmett called after her, his voice softer than he intended. He watched her leave, the door swinging shut behind her as she disappeared into the dusk.

  “Mon dieu.” Henri’s voice broke the spell, and Emmett turned to see his comrade standing behind him, a wide grin plastered across his face.

  Henri clapped an arm over Emmett’s shoulders. “I see you’ve been busy terrorizing the locals.”

  “Terrorizing?” Emmett repeated, shaking his head. “I was trying for charming.”

  Henri barked out a laugh, pointing toward the door where the young woman had gone. “Charming? You mean blundering like an oaf.” He shook his head, his grin widening. “But she does have quite a fine figure, no?”

  “Yeah,” Emmett said, glancing back at the door. “I noticed.”

  Henri laughed again, patting Emmett on the back as he steered him toward the others. “Well, you’ve got your work cut out for you, mon ami. If she’s as sharp as she looks, she’ll chew you up and spit you out.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Emmett replied with a smirk.

  Henri nodded, patting Emmett on the back. “Come my American friend. Lets drink ourselves into a stupor tonight.”

  The morning light spilled over the rooftops of Beaulieu-sur-Argonne, warm and golden, yet entirely unwelcome to Emmett Granger. He staggered out of the Auberge du Chêne Blanc, one hand clutching his throbbing head, the other braced against the doorframe for balance. His mouth tasted like something had crawled in there and died. A foul reminder of the too-many glasses of brandy Emmett had last night with the others.

  The cobbled street swayed beneath his boots, his stomach rolling ominously as he took a shaky step forward.

  “Christ,” he muttered, wincing as the sunlight stabbed into his bloodshot eyes. He stumbled a few more paces before doubling over, gripping his knees.

  And then it hit.

  Emmett vomited onto the cobblestones with a violent retch, his body heaving uncontrollably as the contents of his stomach splattered onto the street. His vision blurred, and his ears rang faintly.

  “Mon dieu…”

  The voice cut through his misery, sharp and full of disbelief. Emmett froze mid-retch, dread pooling in his gut. He lifted his head slowly, wincing as he met the unmistakable glare of the young woman from last night.

  She stood a few feet away, basket in hand, her dark braid slung over one shoulder. Her lips were pressed into a scowl, and her narrowed eyes flicked between Emmett and the puddle of sick steaming at her feet.

  “You have got to be joking,” she muttered, switching to English as her glare deepened.

  Emmett tried to stand up straighter, but his legs wobbled under him. He managed to croak out, “Merde… uh, Bounjour… uh… good morning?”

  Her scowl deepened, her eyes cutting through him like a dagger. “Bonjour? Is this what Americans call a good morning?” she snapped, gesturing toward the mess on the ground.

  “I, uh…” Emmett coughed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His brain scrambled for an excuse, but all he could muster was, “It’s not my best.”

  “Not your best?” she repeated in disbelief, her voice rising. “You look like you crawled out of a pigsty, and you nearly vomited on me!”

  Emmett winced, the words hitting harder than they should have. He started to mutter an apology, but the young woman wasn’t done. She dropped her basket to the ground, stepped forward, and grabbed him roughly by the collar.

  “Come on, you drunken fool,” she hissed, dragging him toward the village well.

  “Wait… hold on, I can…” Emmett stumbled over his words, but she ignored him entirely, muttering furiously in French under her breath. He caught snippets of her tirade: something about idiotic Americans, alcohol, and how men were all the same.

  By the time they reached the well, Emmett was half-dragging his boots, trying to keep up as she hauled him along. She released him with a huff, her glare never wavering as she grabbed the rope and began lowering the bucket.

  Emmett leaned over the edge of the well, gripping the rim for balance as his stomach threatened to revolt again. “You’re stronger than you look,” he managed weakly, his voice hoarse.

  She shot him a look so withering he immediately shut his mouth.

  The bucket splashed into the water below, and she cranked it back up with a sharp, efficient motion. All the while, she muttered to herself in French, her words quick and biting. Emmett could only make out a few phrases “disgraceful,” “unbelievable,” and something about how he smelled worse than a dead horse.

  Finally, the bucket reached the top. The young woman grabbed it with both hands, turned to Emmett, and without a word of warning, dumped the icy water directly over his head.

  “Jesus Christ!” Emmett gasped, jerking upright as the freezing water drenched him. His breath hitched, and for a moment, the hangover seemed to freeze along with the rest of him.

  She dropped the bucket with a loud clatter and crossed her arms, watching him with a mixture of satisfaction and annoyance. “Feel better?” she asked, her voice laced with sarcasm.

  Emmett slumped against the well, water dripping from his hair and jacket. He let out a weak chuckle, wincing as his head throbbed anew. “Not exactly,” he admitted, rubbing his temples. “But I probably deserved that.”

  “Probably?” The young woman shot back, raising an eyebrow.

  “Alright,” Emmett said with a pained grin. “I definitely deserved it.”

  She sighed, crouching in front of him, her expression softening just enough to show a flicker of concern. “You’re an idiot,” she said bluntly, though her tone lacked its earlier bite.

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  “Yeah,” Emmett agreed, nodding slightly. “But I’m a sorry idiot. Almost vomited on you. That wasn’t… great.”

  She stared at him for a moment, her sharp eyes scanning his face. Then she leaned back on her heels, letting out a small huff. “What’s your name, idiot?”

  Emmett blinked, surprised by the question. “Emmett,” he said after a beat. “Emmett Granger.”

  “Well, Monsieur Granger,” She said, rising to her feet, “I suggest you order some strong coffee to sober up. And maybe next time, try not to make a complete fool of yourself.”

  “Noted,” Emmett said with a weak smile, though his voice still carried a faint rasp.

  The young woman cast him one last glance, shaking her head. “Americans,” she muttered under her breath as she turned to leave, her braid swaying behind her.

  She paused briefly at the edge of the square, looking back over her shoulder. “And for God’s sake,” she called, her voice dripping with exasperation, “take a bath!”

  Emmett watched her go, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite the ache in his head. He let out a breath, leaning against the well as the cold water continued to drip from his hair.

  “Well,” he muttered to himself, “that went about as well as it could’ve.”

  The icy water the young woman had dumped on him dripped steadily onto the cobblestones below, forming a small puddle at his feet. His head throbbed with every heartbeat, and his stomach still churned, though it seemed to have settled enough that he wasn’t in immediate danger of vomiting again. He groaned softly, his fingers running through his soaked hair.

  The sound of stumbling footsteps and faint laughter pulled his attention. Henri appeared from around the corner, accompanied by another resistance fighter whose name Emmett couldn’t quite remember. Both men looked as rough as Emmett felt, their faces pale and eyes bloodshot from the previous night’s indulgence.

  “Ah, bonjour, mon ami!” Henri greeted, his voice slurred but cheerful. He gave a mock salute, nearly losing his balance as he did. “How are we feeling this fine morning?”

  Emmett shot him a look, his lips quirking into a faint smirk despite himself. “Like hell, thanks for asking.”

  Henri chuckled and moved toward the well, his movements slow and unsteady. He grabbed the rope and began lowering the bucket, his hands fumbling slightly with the crank. “You look it,” he said over his shoulder. As the bucket splashed into the water below, Henri glanced back at Emmett and frowned. “Why are you soaking wet? Did you fall in the well?”

  Emmett barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “Not quite,” he said, leaning back against the stone. He lit a faintly pained grin as he added, “I was forcibly introduced to the bucket.”

  Henri raised an eyebrow, pausing mid-crank. “Quoi? What are you talking about?”

  Emmett waved a hand, gesturing vaguely toward the square. “The shapely young woman from last night. You know, the one I… might’ve made a fool of myself with.”

  Henri’s eyes lit up with recognition, and he grinned wickedly. “Ah! The beautiful one with the braid! What happened? Did she finally decide to teach you some manners?”

  “Something like that.” Emmett chuckled, wincing as the motion sent a fresh throb of pain through his skull. “She caught me emptying my guts out on the sidewalk. Almost got her, too.”

  Henri froze, his mouth dropping open in exaggerated shock. “You… what?” He burst into laughter, accidentally letting go of the crank. The bucket splashed back into the well, but Henri didn’t seem to notice. “You nearly vomited on her? Emmett, you are hopeless!”

  “She wasn’t thrilled,” Emmett admitted dryly, shaking his head. “Dragged me to the well, called me a drunken fool, and dumped a bucket of water over my head for good measure.”

  Henri roared with laughter, slapping his knee as he hauled the bucket back up. “Good for her!” he said, his voice wheezing slightly. “You deserved it, you imbécile.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Emmett muttered, though a faint grin tugged at his lips. “Real funny.”

  Henri finally managed to pull the bucket to the top and grabbed it with both hands, sloshing water everywhere as he brought it to his lips for a drink. The other resistance fighter, looking pale and unsteady, mumbled something incoherent before stumbling back toward the inn, leaving Henri and Emmett alone.

  Henri dropped down beside Emmett, his breath hitching as he broke into a coughing fit. For a moment, it looked like he might vomit, but he steadied himself with a groan, clutching his chest. “Too much brandy,” he muttered, pulling a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He held it out to Emmett. “Smoke?”

  “God, yes.” Emmett snatched the cigarette and held it to his lips as Henri struck a match, offering it to him. He inhaled deeply, the smoke burning his throat but calming his nerves. They sat in silence for a moment, the only sounds the crackle of their cigarettes and the distant chatter of the village.

  After a long drag, Henri glanced sideways at Emmett, a sly grin spreading across his face. “You should apologize to her properly, you know,” he said. “Maybe she’ll forgive you. Maybe she’ll marry you and give you many children.”

  Emmett let out a dry laugh, leaning his head back against the well. “When pigs fly, Henri. I haven’t exactly made a good first impression.”

  Henri shrugged, his grin widening. “You can still act the part of a gentleman, mon ami. Pick some flowers, write her a poem…”

  “Henri,” Emmett cut in, narrowing his eyes. “If you say one more word, I’m dumping you in this well.”

  Henri threw his head back and laughed, his voice echoing across the square. Before he could respond, a loud, raspy voice interrupted them.

  “Henri!”

  Both men turned to see an older man storming toward them, his cane tapping sharply against the cobblestones. He was short and wiry, with a face lined like old leather and eyes that burned with irritation. He jabbed his cane toward Henri, his voice rising.

  “Henri Roux! I always knew you’d be a drunken fool! Useless to mankind, just like your father!” He ranted in French.

  Henri’s grin faltered, replaced by a scowl. “Ah, Monsieur Perrin,” he said, his tone dripping with mock politeness. “Still alive, I see. I was beginning to think old age had finally claimed you.”

  Perrin huffed, his glare shifting to Emmett. “And who is this? Another drunken fool to keep you company?”

  Emmett blinked. He considered firing back but decided against it. His French was too poor, and he was too hungover to make it worth the effort.

  Henri, however, had no such reservations. He jabbed a finger toward Perrin, his voice rising. “Why don’t you mind your own business, you old coot? Go sit in the square and wait for death like the rest of your kind!”

  Perrin’s face turned red with anger, but before he could reply, Henri hauled himself to his feet, dragging Emmett up with him. “Come on,” Henri muttered, his tone impatient. “Let’s get out of here before he starts throwing stones.”

  Emmett groaned as he stood, his head pounding anew. “Lead the way, pal.”

  The two men stumbled back toward the inn, Henri still calling insults over his shoulder as Perrin shouted after them. By the time they reached the door, Emmett was laughing despite himself.

  “You’ve got some real fans in this village, Henri,” he said, his voice dry.

  Henri grinned, clapping him on the back. “Ah, they love me, Emmett. They just don’t know it yet.”

  The pair made their way to the inn’s counter, Emmett sighing as he ran a hand over his face, trying to wipe away the exhaustion, and the remnants of last night’s indulgence. His stomach rolled, his body still at war with him. He turned to Henri, his voice low and rough.

  “Should probably get the others together. They still alive?”

  Henri smirked, watching as Emmett swayed slightly on his feet. “Oui, mon ami. I think so… though if they are not, I’ll raise them from the dead.”

  Emmett groaned, gripping the edge of the bar as another wave of nausea hit. “Oh, god.” He muttered, swallowing hard. He needed something in his stomach that wasn’t last night’s liquor.

  Henri clapped him on the shoulder, laughing. “I’ll fetch them, you sit. Perhaps drink some water before you disgrace yourself again.”

  Emmett shot him a glare, though it lacked real bite. With that, Henri turned toward the stairs, whistling to himself as he went to wake the rest of their battered crew.

  Grunting, Emmett rubbed his temples before motioning to the innkeeper behind the counter, who was already eyeing him with mild amusement.

  “A pot of coffee,” Emmett grumbled, his voice hoarse. He hesitated for a moment before adding, “And… water. A pitcher.”

  The innkeeper arched a thick brow, his mustache twitching. “Ah, the American wakes,” he mused, his tone dry as he leaned on the counter. “You and your friends drank enough to kill a horse last night.”

  Emmett exhaled through his nose, not in the mood for banter. He slid a few francs across the counter. “Then it is miracle I still stand,” he muttered.

  The innkeeper chuckled, scooping up the coins with practiced ease. “A miracle indeed.” He nodded toward the back. “Go sit before you fall, monsieur. I will bring what you ask.”

  Emmett muttered something unintelligible, weaving his way toward a table in the farthest corner of the tavern. He picked one with a good vantage point. Habit more than anything and sank down heavily onto the wooden chair. The moment his elbows hit the table, he let his head fall into his hands, rubbing his temples in slow, deliberate circles. His head throbbed like a war drum, the pulsing behind his eyes relentless.

  Around him, the tavern was beginning to stir, the morning crowd slipping in. Workers, farmers, and travelers looking for breakfast or something stronger to start the day. There was a warmth to the place, the scent of baked bread and simmering stew lingering in the air, almost enough to settle his stomach. Almost.

  Footsteps approached, and Emmett cracked an eye open as the innkeeper returned, setting down a steaming pot of black coffee, a chipped ceramic cup, and a heavy pitcher of water.

  Emmett reached for the coffee first, pouring a mugful with sluggish movements, hands barely steady. The innkeeper watched, arms crossed over his broad chest.

  “You drink like a Frenchman, but you recover like an Englishman,” the man remarked, a smirk playing on his lips.

  Emmett huffed, “I drink like an American.” He said dryly, stirring the coffee absently before taking a slow sip. The hot bitterness burned his throat, cutting through the lingering fog in his brain. He exhaled heavily, letting the warmth seep into his bones.

  The sound of boots clunking against the stairs signaled Henri’s return. He strode in, looking far too smug for someone who had been just as deep in his cups last night.

  Behind him, a few other resistance fighters shuffled in, some looking even worse than Emmett. One of them. Tall, gaunt, and clutching his stomach, collapsed into the chair beside him with a low groan.

  “I am dead,” the man croaked, voice muffled against the table. “Tell my mother I fought bravely.”

  Henri snorted, clapping him on the back hard enough to make him jolt. “You fought with your liver, my friend, and you lost.”

  Emmett, feeling marginally more human, tilted his cup toward him. “Welcome to hell,” he said dryly before taking another slow sip.

  The innkeeper lingered a moment, watching the sorry state of them all before exhaling through his nose. “I will bring food,” he said simply. “You will eat, or I will throw you out into the street.”

  Emmett cracked the first real grin of the morning. “Generous.”

  The innkeeper shrugged. “You drink like men, now you must eat like men. That is how it works.”

  Henri smirked, rubbing his hands together. “See, Emmett? We are in good hands.” He said switching to English.

  Emmett grunted, pouring another cup of coffee, the steam curling into the air. As the innkeeper turned to fetch food, Henri leaned in, voice lowering just enough for only Emmett to hear.

  “I told you,” he said with a grin, “the beds are soft, the drink flows like water, and the people? Ah, they take good care of us.”

  Emmett hummed, staring down into his coffee, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Yeah,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders. “Not bad.” He leaned back in his chair, feeling the warmth of the coffee spread through his limbs, which seemed to ease the ache his body felt.

  Emmett cleared his throat, setting his cup down with a soft clink. He straightened, rubbing a hand over his face as he looked to Henri.

  “Let’s get this over with,” he muttered, voice rough.

  Henri smirked, leaning back in his chair. “The fearless leader speaks. Go on, Emmett. I’ll make sure these fine gentlemen can understand your butchery.”

  Emmett shot him a dry glare but pressed on. Switching to his rough French, he began, “We have the weapons… stashed at the church. For now, we lay low. Rest a few days, and it’s right back to it. Take time to sleep, recover, and eat.”

  Henri smoothed out the details, voice confident as the others nodded along.

  But Luc, always Luc, leaned forward, his elbows on the table, eyes sharp, mouth curling into a familiar, thin-lipped grin.

  “Granger,” he said in English, his voice carrying across the table, “you’ve been here, what, over a year? Fighting with us, bleeding with us…” Luc said flatly.

  Henri gave a warning glance, but Luc ignored it, pressing on. “And yet still… where are the rest of you? Where is America? When do they arrive?”

  The table quieted slightly, a faint tension slipping in. Luc’s tone wasn’t new. He’d voiced this frustration before. But now, with drink in his blood, he was pushing it.

  “I look around,” Luc continued, gesturing casually, “and all I see is one lone cowboy with a gun and a temper. No army. No cavalry. Just you.” His eyes narrowed. “Makes me wonder if your country even cares.”

  Emmett’s gaze hardened, his jaw tightening. He leaned back in his chair. His voice was steady, but it carried a sharp edge as he replied, “you ask me like I have a damn idea Luc.” Emmett said in a low flat tone. “Maybe my countrymen haven’t seen a good enough reason to assist such a piss-poor band of fools as you.” He let the words hang in the air before adding with a wry grin, “Present company excluded, of course.”

  Luc’s grin faltered, his face reddening as a few of the fighters chuckled nervously.

  He opened his mouth to retort, but Henri cut him off, slamming his hand on the table with enough force to make the mugs rattle.

  “Christ, Luc. You really don’t know when to shut up, do you?” Henri snapped.

  Luc huffed, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. “I meant no offense,” he muttered, though his tone was anything but apologetic. Emmett leaned back as well, his eyes still locked onto the man. “Sure you didn’t,” he said dryly, his voice laced with sarcasm. The tension lingered for a moment before Henri let out a loud sigh, breaking the silence. “God save me from you fools,” he muttered, taking a long swig of his coffee.

  Henri cleared his throat. “Alright, enough of this before we start drawing knives.” Let’s finish the damn meeting.”

  The table relaxed, the tension dissipating as the conversation shifted to other matters. But Emmett’s gaze lingered on the younger man for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then he shook his head, drained the last of his coffee, and turned his focus back to meeting.

  Emmett dragged himself through the village square, the pounding in his head still echoing from the night before. The sun was too bright, the chatter of the villagers too loud, and the distant clatter of a horse-drawn cart too grating for his fragile state. Henri walked beside him, looking much better by comparison, though his perpetual smirk grated on Emmett’s nerves.

  “We rest, plan for a few days, then back to it,” Emmett muttered, lighting a cigarette with trembling hands.

  “Back to what?” Henri asked, his tone light. “The usual grind? Blowing things up, sowing chaos?”

  Emmett nodded, his lips tightening around the cigarette. “That’s the job, isn’t it?”

  Henri chuckled. “The job, oui. But now we actually have weapons worth a damn.” He clapped Emmett on the shoulder. “You have no idea how good it feels to hold a rifle that doesn’t feel like it belongs in a museum.”

  Emmett exhaled a plume of smoke, glancing sidelong at his companion. “Yeah, well, don’t get too comfortable. Luck doesn’t last.”

  Henri groaned, throwing his hands up. “Why must you always be so damn pessimistic, Granger? Can’t you let me enjoy this small victory?”

  Emmett smirked faintly but didn’t reply. They turned a corner, the aroma of freshly baked bread wafting through the air. Emmett’s stomach growled despite the lingering nausea, and the food he had already eaten at the tavern. He nodded toward the bakery.

  “Let’s grab something to eat,” he said, flicking the spent cigarette away.

  Inside the small bakery, the warm scent of bread and pastries filled the air. Emmett handed over a few francs for a loaf, and the two men stepped outside to sit on a nearby bench. They tore the bread apart, eating in companionable silence for a few moments before Henri lit another cigarette and handed one to Emmett.

  “So, where next?” Henri asked, taking a drag.

  Emmett chewed thoughtfully, washing the bread down with a gulp of water. “We need better explosives. That homemade shit isn’t cutting it.”

  Henri nodded, blowing a stream of smoke into the air. “Agreed. We’ll have to get creative. Maybe steal from a depot or bribe the right person… perhaps support from London.”

  Emmett shrugged. “Whatever it takes.”

  As Henri rambled on about possible targets, Emmett’s gaze wandered across the square. His eyes landed on a young woman navigating through the bustle, her dark braid swinging behind her. His eyebrow’s raised as he recognized her. The shapely young woman.

  “Henri,” Emmett said, tossing the rest of the bread at him, “hold this. I’ll be right back.”

  Henri caught the loaf with a surprised grunt, following Emmett’s gaze. His lips curled into a sly grin. “Good luck, mon ami,” he said, chuckling as he leaned back, crossing a leg across his lap.

  Emmett ignored him, rising from the bench and heading into the square. As he passed a flowerbed, a thought struck him. He stooped and plucked a few flowers, arranging them into a rough bouquet. He grimaced at their lopsided appearance but shrugged. It would have to do.

  The woman was at a stall, examining a bundle of fabric. Emmett approached, clearing his throat awkwardly.

  She turned, her expression shifting from curiosity to exasperation as she saw him. Her dark eyes darted to the flowers in his hand, and she frowned. “Did you pick those from the square?”

  Emmett shrugged. “I did,” he admitted.

  She sighed, shaking her head as she reluctantly accepted them. “Don’t do that again,” she said sternly.

  “Apologies,” Emmett replied, his tone sheepish. Then he hesitated before adding, “Also… for almost vomiting on you yesterday.”

  Her lips twitched, but she maintained a disinterested tone. “Apology accepted,” she said, turning back to her business.

  Emmett, undeterred, stepped closer. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “That’s because I didn’t give it,” she replied, not bothering to look at him.

  He smirked. “Fair enough. Can I ask why not?”

  She paused, turning to face him fully. Her gaze was sharp as she crossed her arms. “Why is an American fighting with the resistance? Did you come here looking for adventure?” She asked changing subjects.

  Emmett scratched the back of his neck. “It’s a long story,” he said simply.

  She raised an eyebrow, studying him for a moment before huffing and turning back to the stall. “I figured.”

  She paid for a few items and began walking, Emmett followed. “Still no name, huh?” he asked, his tone light.

  She sighed, casting him a sidelong glance. “Maybe,” she said cryptically. “Where are you from in America?”

  “Middle of nowhere, Montana,” Emmett replied.

  Her eyebrow arched again. “So, you’re a cowboy then?”

  “Something like that,” he said with a faint grin.

  They reached her destination, a small seamstress shop tucked between two larger buildings. She turned to him, shaking the flowers slightly. “Thank you for the flowers,” she said, her tone softer now. “And the apology.” She hesitated, then added, “And for what it’s worth, thank you for fighting with the resistance.”

  Emmett tipped his hat slightly. “It’s worth plenty.”

  She opened the door, stepping inside before pausing. Turning back to him, she said, “Adele.”

  Emmett blinked. “What?”

  “My name,” she clarified. “Adele.”

  With that, she slipped inside, the door clicking shut behind her.

  Emmett stood there for a moment, repeating the name under his breath. “Adele.” He nodded, satisfied, and turned back toward the square.

  Henri was still on the bench, laughing as he scratched a stray dog’s ears, who was pining for the bread. “So,” Henri called out as Emmett approached, “when’s the wedding?”

  “Shut the fuck up, Henri,” Emmett growled, though a faint grin tugged at his lips.

  Henri laughed loudly, falling into step beside him as they made their way back to the church to check on the stashed weapons.

  Three days flew by in a blur of drink, sleep, and good food. Something that the HeadHunters had been in short supply of in the previous, chaotic months.

  The cool evening air carried the scent of hay and damp earth as Emmett Granger and another HeadHunter, a burly man with dark stubble and a permanent scowl named Jacques, heaved a heavy crate toward the waiting truck. The rickety vehicle groaned under the weight of the supplies already loaded, its wooden slats bowing slightly. Emmett’s boots scraped against the cobblestones as he grunted, the muscles in his arms straining with the effort.

  "Christ, this thing weighs as much as Henri’s ego," Emmett muttered through clenched teeth, earning a wheezy laugh from Jacques.

  The two men hefted the crate onto the truck bed with a final shove, the wood creaking ominously as it settled. Jacques clapped Emmett on the shoulder and leaned against the truck, catching his breath.

  “Putain! That’s the last of it, I hope,” Jacques grumbled, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. “What do they have in there, a tank?”

  “Feels like it,” Emmett replied, rolling his shoulder. “But at least we’ll be ready for whatever the Krauts throw at us.”

  The rest of the HeadHunters worked quickly, securing the supplies with ropes and tarps. Their chatter filled the square, a mix of relief and nervous energy. Luc, cradled a stolen Kar98 rifle and worked the bolt with exaggerated care. He let out a mock sensual moan as the action slid smoothly, earning a round of laughter from the others.

  “Ah, mes amis,” Luc said with a grin, his accent thick as he held the rifle up like a prized possession. “Things are looking up for the Resistance, no?”

  Emmett smirked and grabbed an MP40 from the cache, inspecting the weapon with practiced efficiency. He pulled the bolt back, satisfied with its smooth motion, and glanced at the others. “Are you all ready?” he asked in his clumsy French, doing his best to sound natural.

  The fighters answered with a resounding hoot, their enthusiasm echoing through the quiet village square. Henri emerged from the nearby church, carrying a bundle of supplies. His face was set with that easy grin he always seemed to wear.

  “We need better explosives,” Henri said, dropping the bundle onto the truck with a huff. “The stuff we have now? C’est de la merde.”

  “Don’t worry,” Emmett replied, slinging the MP40 over his shoulder. “That’s next on the list.”

  Henri chuckled, brushing off his hands. “I’ll hold you to it, mon ami.”

  As Emmett turned to adjust the tarp on the truck, his gaze drifted toward the square’s edge, where a small group of villagers had gathered to watch. Adele stood among them, her dark braid catching the fading light as she chatted with an older woman. Beside her stood a boy who couldn’t have been more than fifteen, his chest puffed out like a rooster.

  A grin tugged at Emmett’s lips. He nudged Henri with his elbow. “I’ll be back.”

  Henri raised an eyebrow, following Emmett’s line of sight. His grin widened. “Ah, Adele. You know, you’ve made quite the impression on her.”

  “Think so?”

  “Oh, yes,” Henri said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “She loves the way you butcher her language.”

  The other fighters noticed the exchange, and Henri waved toward them with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Look, everyone! Emmett is off to make a fool of himself again!”

  The men hooted and hollered, their laughter ringing through the square as Emmett shook his head and strode toward Adele.

  As he approached, Adele looked up, her expression shifting from mild curiosity to guarded amusement. The boy, standing close to her side, eyed Emmett with open suspicion.

  “Finally rid of you and your smell?” Adele asked, her lips curling into a teasing smile.

  Emmett stopped a few feet away, his grin widening. “Took a bath.”

  Her brow arched. “Did you change your clothes?”

  Emmett nodded, gesturing toward his jacket. “Even found something clean.”

  Adele leaned in slightly, pretending to sniff the air. “Hmm. Still smells a little.”

  Before Emmett could retort, the boy cut in. “Can I come with you?”

  The question hung in the air for a moment. Adele let out a long-suffering sigh, placing a hand on his shoulder. Emmett looked between them, his grin faltering slightly.

  “How old are you?” Emmett asked, kneeling slightly to meet the boy’s gaze.

  “Fourteen,” the boy declared, his chest puffing out further.

  “Thirteen,” Adele corrected, rolling her eyes.

  “My birthday’s in a few weeks!” the boy shot back indignantly.

  Emmett chuckled, his tone softening as he said, “Look, kid, I appreciate the enthusiasm. But someone’s gotta stay back and keep tabs on things around here. Especially with your folks and sister to watch out for.”

  The boy frowned, his chest deflating slightly. His head hung a little, and the silence that followed told Emmett everything he needed to know.

  Emmett’s smile faded. He straightened, his gaze meeting Adele’s. Her expression was calm but tinged with weariness, and she gave him a small nod of confirmation.

  “All the more reason to stay,” Emmett said gently. He held out a hand, and after a brief hesitation, the boy shook it, though his grip was firm with frustration.

  “Thanks,” Adele said softly, her eyes meeting Emmett’s.

  He smiled faintly. “Next time we’re through, could I buy you dinner?”

  Adele laughed, shaking her head as though considering it. “If you buy dinner for me and my brother.”

  Emmett nodded without missing a beat. “Deal.”

  She laughed again, and for a brief moment, the weight of everything seemed to fade away.

  Emmett gave a small wave as he turned to leave. Behind him, Adele’s brother muttered something under his breath, earning a soft scolding from his sister.

  Back at the truck, the fighters were grinning like a pack of schoolboys.

  “So, Emmett,” Henri called out, leaning casually against the truck. “When this is all over, are you staying in France? Or are you bringing her back to Montana to play Rancher?”

  The men erupted into laughter, their jeers and whistles echoing through the square.

  Emmett climbed into the cab, fixing them with a withering glare. “I’ll start knocking teeth out if you lot don’t quit gawking.”

  The fighters snickered but fell silent as Henri hopped into the driver’s seat.

  As the truck rumbled to life, Emmett lit a cigarette, shaking his head. “They’re a bunch of fools.”

  Henri laughed, shifting gears. “Aren’t we all?”

  The truck sputtered to life, and began crawling along. The road growing rougher as the cobblestone gave way to a rough, dirt road. The Resistance fighters in the back leaned against the sideboards, passing around a canteen and exchanging quiet laughter. In the cab, Henri had one hand on the wheel and the other resting casually on the windowsill. His easy demeanor was a stark contrast to Emmett, who sat stiffly, a cigarette clenched between his teeth, watching the horizon like it might suddenly burst into gunfire.

  Henri glanced over, a mischievous glint in his eye. “So, tell me something, mon ami. Why do cowboys make that whoop sound?”

  Emmett squinted at him, his brow furrowing. “What?”

  Henri smirked. “You know. The whoo-pee sound. Always in the stories. Is it for intimidation? Celebration? Or are you all just a little mad?”

  Emmett shook his head, exhaling a cloud of smoke out the window. “It’s not just a noise, Henri. It’s a holler. Helps call cattle, rile up a herd, or just let loose when the work’s done.” He leaned back, giving a slight grin. “Also scares the shit outta coyotes.”

  Henri nodded sagely, though the twinkle in his eyes suggested he was far from finished. “Ah, so it’s a multifunctional sound. Very practical.” He grinned wider and slid open the small window behind him, calling back to the fighters. “As you know, mes amis, Emmett here is a cowboy? And do you know what cowboys do?” He asked in French.

  The fighters all turned, their faces alight with curiosity.

  Henri’s grin stretched wider. “They whoop! And Emmett is going to give us a real cowboy whoop.”

  Emmett shot him a glare, his cigarette nearly falling from his lips. “Hell no, I’m not.”

  Henri sighed dramatically, draping his arm over the steering wheel as though the weight of Emmett’s refusal was too much to bear. “Come on, mon ami. It’s for good luck. You’ve said yourself we could use more of it.”

  Emmett muttered something under his breath, likely a colorful insult aimed squarely at Henri.

  Henri, undeterred, turned back to the window and raised his voice. “What if we pitch in for a bottle? A fine bottle of whiskey for our cowboy.”

  The fighters erupted in agreement, their laughter and cheers spilling into the cab. One of them yelled, “Oui! For luck and whiskey!”

  Another chimed in, “Do it, Emmett! Give us your best!”

  Henri leaned back, grinning triumphantly. “See? The men have spoken. You wouldn’t deny us a bit of luck, would you?”

  Emmett groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re all a bunch of idiots.”

  “And you’re the leader of the idiots,” Henri quipped, his grin never faltering.

  “Fine,” Emmett muttered, tossing his cigarette out the window. He leaned out, his shoulders stiff as he surveyed the grinning faces in the back. “You want a whoop? You’ll get a damn whoop.”

  Taking a deep breath, Emmett let out a loud, enthusiastic “Yeehaw!” that echoed through the quiet countryside. The fighters erupted into laughter and cheers, clapping and hollering as they joined in with their own attempts at cowboy calls.

  “Yeehaw!” one of them bellowed, his accent mangling the word so badly it came out more like “Yah-ha!”

  Another shouted, “Vive le cow-boy!” before dissolving into laughter.

  Henri joined in, leaning out his window to holler along with the others. The sound carried on the wind, a chaotic symphony of laughter, cheers, and half-hearted attempts at cowboy whoops, startling a flock of birds in a nearby tree.

  Emmett pulled himself back into the cab, shaking his head but unable to hide the faint grin tugging at his lips. “You’re all ridiculous.”

  Henri clapped him on the shoulder, his laughter subsiding into a warm chuckle. “Ah, but you’ve brought joy to our little band of misfits. See? Even cowboys have their uses.”

  Emmett leaned back, lighting another cigarette. “Damn you Henri.”

  Henri only laughed, his hands steady on the wheel as the truck bounced along the road. “Fair enough, mon ami. But admit it, you enjoyed yourself.”

  Emmett didn’t respond, but the faint flicker of a smile remained as he watched the horizon. In the back, the fighters were still laughing, their voices carrying through the open window.