The Second Objective by Mark Frost

They’d been told exactly where the commissary cars started. By the time Grannit reached the coupling, the crew had already pried open the locks and thrown back the sidings. They swarmed inside, foraging through the boxes and crates, looking for cigarettes, liquor, chocolate, soap, coffee. Designated for front-line battalions, this cargo, Grannit knew, would disappear by daybreak into the burgeoning black markets of Paris and Brussels. In the last few months thousands of Allied soldiers had deserted to join this gold-rush racket, siphoning off army supply trains, selling to the French, Belgians, even stranded Krauts with cash. Once the American Army marched into Paris, the situation spiraled out of control. Fortunes were being made. The high-end players were said to be living in style on the Left Bank, like Al Capone and Dutch Schultz. By December over 40 percent of the luxury goods landing at Normandy, the staples of corps morale, never made it to the front-line soldier.
    From what Grannit saw in front of him, an entire U.S. railway battalion had been infected, swarming over this train like locusts, their officers standing by to supervise. He’d witnessed enough human imperfection that few variations on the tune surprised him, but this put a fist in his stomach.
    Grannit pulled out a heavy coupling jack wedged into the freight car’s slats. As he inserted the jack into the joint to uncouple the cars, the train’s steam whistle blew: three short bursts, then three long, three short.
    Ole sending an SOS. If they were paying attention, their backup at the station would double-time it down the tracks.
    Grannit looked over at Jonesy. He had turned around, staring back at the engine, trying to decide what that whistle signified, whether he should worry or not.
    Grannit covered the five steps between them and tomahawked Jonesy in the back of his knee with the coupling jack. He buckled and dropped to one knee. Grannit caught him with a second shot on the crown of the right shoulder, paralyzing his gun arm before he could reach his holster. Grannit shoved him and Jonesy hit the ground, whimpering in pain, trying to roll off the damaged shoulder. Grannit pulled Jonesy’s Colt and knelt down on top of him, grabbing his neck, driving a knee into the big man’s kidney.
    “Stay down, Jonesy,” he said.
    “Fuck, what’d you hit me for?”
    “You’re under arrest, you dumb shit. Put your hands in front of you and your face in the dirt or I’ll blow your head off.”
    Jonesy complied. Grannit slipped a homemade sap out of his pocket—a black dress sock filled with twelve-gauge shot—and cracked him behind the ear. Jonesy went limp. Grannit stood up and turned toward the PX cars. The train whistle hadn’t appeared to alarm the scavengers, and none of them had seen him take Jonesy down in the dark, but more than a few glanced his way. He spotted the two officers he’d seen earlier with Eddie Bennings beside the cargo trucks, looking a lot more concerned.
    Grannit walked straight at them, holding the gun at his side. As he got close, the two officers and Bennings headed for their car, parked nearby. When the engine started, Grannit raised the .45 and shot out the left front tire. The concussion cut through the night. He reached the driver’s side, smashed the window with the barrel of the Colt, reached in, and yanked the keys out of the ignition. The man behind the wheel, a captain, looked at him, red-faced and indignant, and made a feeble swipe at Grannit’s hand.
    “What the hell you think you’re doing, soldier?”
    Grannit grabbed the captain by the collar, pulled his head out the window, and shoved his neck against the edge of the roof, knocking off his hat. By now he had the whole unit’s attention, soldiers coming toward him with weapons drawn, others scattering. Eddie Bennings scrambled out of the backseat, staring at Grannit like he’d seen a ghost.
    “Easy, Earl, buddy—” said Eddie.
    Grannit jammed the Colt