One Shot Kill by Robert Muchamore

around the house aiming rifles while her horse stood rigid.
    ‘Gee-up.’
    This time Rosie kicked a little too hard and the horse shot off in an indignant gallop, almost knocking Rosie off backwards.
    Edith was alarmed as Rosie’s horse stormed off. ‘Hard on the reins,’ she yelled. ‘Got to show her who’s boss.’
    Rosie pulled the reins more in hope than expectation. The horse came to a complete halt, but Edith had galloped up alongside, and the presence of Edith’s horse seemed to act as a calming influence on Rosie’s. After their jerky restart, the two animals began trotting side by side.
    As the newly arrived Germans took in the full extent of the carnage inside and around the house, the two teenagers vanished out of sight behind the stable block, then down a slight hill and on to a footpath that ran between the surrounding fields.
    ‘We’ll put a few kilometres in, then find a spot where we can hide out until dark,’ Rosie said.
    ‘I know all the tracks around here,’ Edith answered, as Rosie noticed that blood was already seeping into the back of Edith’s clean dress. ‘But we should pick up the pace, are you ready for a gallop?’
     
    *
     
    Rosie never got comfortable in the saddle, but the pair rode for thirty minutes without incident. They skirted around villages to avoid being seen, but it was daylight and they still passed horses, carts, and even a gang of prisoners repairing roads, under the eye of grizzled French guards.
    Fortunately there were no telephones out here and the local Gendarmes 4 didn’t have radios. So unless they encountered men dispatched specifically to look for them, they’d be long gone by the time anyone realised that they’d seen Lorient’s most wanted ride by.
    When they reached the abandoned farms of the buffer zone, they found a stream where the horses could drink and settled down in the grass.
    Rosie was shocked by how much Edith was sweating when she helped her down off the horse. Edith drank water and nibbled some pieces of fruit, but she doubled over and vomited within minutes of eating them.
    ‘Let it all come out,’ Rosie said, as she held Edith’s hair back.
    ‘I can’t get sick now,’ Edith said, clutching her bony fists with frustration. ‘I’ve got to fight it.’
    Rosie tried to keep cheerful for Edith’s sake, but her weakness was no surprise. Edith had barely eaten in a week and she’d spent days on a filthy cell floor while covered with open wounds. Rosie suspected that the vomiting and sweats were signs of an infection spreading into Edith’s bloodstream.
    ‘I feel dizzy,’ Edith said. Then she sobbed. ‘I was ready to die. No offence, but you shouldn’t have tried to rescue me.’
    Rosie didn’t reply, but largely agreed. Eugene had known that the rescue was a huge risk. Perhaps if she’d stood up to him he’d be alive right now and so would Madame Lisle.
    As the afternoon wore on, Rosie wiped Edith down to keep her cool and tried getting her to drink as much as possible. Eventually Edith fell asleep. After pulling Edith into the shade, Rosie pulled off her own boots and socks and spent a long time sitting with her feet in the stream.
    Rosie kept vigilant for search parties as she washed the outside of her boots and wiped the blood off the machine gun. Then she took the map of their escape plan from her backpack and felt miserable as she studied markings and notes made in Eugene’s handwriting.
    They’d planned to take photographs and make up a false identity for Edith while at Madame Lisle’s house, then set off as soon as it started getting dark. They would then have ridden fifteen kilometres across country to a single-track railway which supplied coal to a power station at Moelan sur Mer.
    War played havoc with train schedules, but Eugene had somehow confirmed that the power station was still operational and fed by a nightly delivery of coal. The train didn’t stop, but was easily boarded when it slowed to a crawl on a hilly