Blood Alone by James R. Benn Read Free Book Online Page A

this goddamned island. Italian trouble, German trouble, and whatever brand of trouble I was in. I grabbed a M1928 field pack—oddly enough, I could remember all sorts of army nomenclature—and stuffed in socks, a shaving kit, anything I thought I might need for the next few days. I found an open carton of D rations and threw in some of the vitamin-fortified chocolate bars. Then I retrieved the handkerchief and the note from where I’d stashed them. I folded the handkerchief and stuck it under my T-shirt, against the small of my back. I located a sewing kit, picked up my shirt, and pulled a chair over in front of Rocko. I took out my knife. Rocko was shaking. I pulled the shirt from his mouth.
    “Don’t. . . ,” he started to say, then spit on the floor. “Don’t kill me. You aren’t gonna kill me, are you, kid? Jesus Christ!” He spit again, that last curse directed at the taste left in his mouth, not me. Not directly anyway.
    I sat back and began cutting the stitches from my Seventh Army shoulder patch on the khaki shirt I’d been wearing. I figured it might come in handy to stay a Headquarters GI if I had to talk my way out of a fix. I got the patch off and pulled at the little threads, wondering if this was a clue to my identity or another subterfuge.
    I didn’t like the way things were going, and I needed to find out what I was involved in. So far, it all seemed suspicious. I mean, who would have been in Sicily prior to the invasion? Secret agents, maybe, but somehow I doubted I was one. Did secret agents let themselves be led around by Italians? Weren’t they trained to remember things? I almost had to wonder if I was really an American. But outside of a few curse words in French and Italian, I couldn’t come up with anything but English. So I was sure I was a genuine Yank. What did that tell me? Even if I was an agent, it didn’t mean I was safe, not until I knew what my mission was.
    “I heard some guy leave before I sneaked in here, Rocko,” I said as I threaded the needle. “Who was he?”
    “I dunno. Some officer who wanted a case of scotch.”
    “Really?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Rocko, I think you were going to deliver me to someone dead or alive when you brought me down here this morning. I think I got out of here just in time.”
    “I dunno what you’re talkin’ about,” Rocko said. “Say, what happened to Hutton? Is he really dead?”
    “Yep,” I said. “He a pal of yours?”
    “Yeah, you could say that.”
    “Sorry for your loss.”
    “Fuck you, buddy,” Rocko snarled. “You better untie me now! I could holler my head off—”
    The knife blade was at his throat before he could finish. He didn’t say another word.
    “Rocko, the things I remember are all pretty nasty. I’ve killed before, up close, like this. I killed people today. It wouldn’t bother me to add one more.”
    “Jesus, kid, we’re on the same side!” He croaked out the words, his eyeballs swiveling down, trying to see the blade.
    “If that were true, Rocko, you would’ve gotten in the jeep with us this morning.”
    “The captain, he ordered me—”
    “No, no, no,” I said, pressing the blade against his neck. “Don’t lie to me, Rocko, don’t do it. I’m on edge right now, and I really don’t care if you leave this tent under your own power or toes up.”
    “OK, kid, geez, take it easy with that thing. I keep it pretty sharp, y’know.”
    I moved the flat of the blade away from his throat, leaving the tip resting just below his Adam’s apple. A tremble scurried through the muscles of my arm and settled in my gut. Was I a killer? A close-in killer? Not like up on the line, where you did what you had to do to stay alive, following orders. No, not like that at all. Was I a killer who could lay the blade of a knife against a throat and use it like a professional? A remorseless killer. Was that who I was?
    Had I been sent here to kill someone—not the unknown enemy but someone with a face and a name? Was