Holk shook his head and signed off a moment later.
Mansfeld leaned back in his chair. The pieces were falling into place. The Militia attack toward Hamilton showed the Americans still had fight left, but they were scraping the bottom of the barrel. Army Group A made the great push and the Americans scrambled to stop them. Soon now, soon the new blitzkrieg to victory through New York and Pennsylvania would begin.
Paul Kavanagh sat in a loud bar with the music blasting. Men and women danced on the floor, with the band playing on stage. It was an old country band, the guitarist, singer and drummer all wearing cowboy hats and boots.
Paul sat alone, nursing a whiskey. Around him, men and women talked loudly and laughed even louder. Many of the couples touched and more than a few kissed.
“Amigo, what are you doing?” Romo asked.
Paul looked up.
A beautiful young woman clutched each of Romo’s biceps. The Mexico Home Army assassin attracted the ladies, that was for sure. They sensed his deadliness, no doubt, the hardness of his eyes. Like moths to a flame, they circled until finally Romo drew them in for an evening’s vigorous sex.
Romo slid his arms free of the women and sat down across the table from Paul. He paused, and looked up sharply. “What are you doing?” he asked the two girls. “Get me a beer, and get ones for yourselves, too.”
The two girls—one had long black hair and the other had long bottle-blonde hair—glanced at each other.
“We need money,” the blonde told Romo.
“You don’t have any in that tiny purse of yours?” Romo asked.
“We’re the ladies,” she said. What she meant, of course, was that a woman as hot as she didn’t pay.
“Yes,” Romo said, slapping her hip. “I know you’re a lady.”
“That means you’re supposed to pay for us,” she said.
Romo laughed. It was like a tiger mocking its prey. “Why would I pay when any woman here would cut off her pinky finger to receive my love?”
The two women glanced at each other again. The dark-haired one giggled.
“You’re bad,” she told Romo.
“Yes,” Romo agreed. “I am bad.” He snapped his fingers twice in quick succession. “Now hurry. I’m thirsty. Buy me a beer and be quick about it.”
The two women—they wore the shortest skirts here—hurried to the bar, the blonde opening her purse and extracting bills as they sashayed there. Heads turned as she passed, men tilting their chins to get a look at her.
“You seem glum,” Romo told Paul.
Paul still held his whiskey on the table, using both hands to clutch the shot glass. He’d hunched over the drink and stared into its glistening depths. The music caused it to vibrate with tiny ripples.
“You need a woman,” Romo said.
Without looking up, Paul shook his head. “There’s only one woman for me: my wife.”
“And if you die tomorrow?” Romo asked.
“Then I’ll have stayed faithful until the end.”
“You Americans,” Romo said.
Paul finally looked up. He eyed his blood brother, and he seemed to see him better than ever. Romo had an empty heart. It had drained the day he’d murdered his girlfriend. He tried to fill it with sex, and it likely worked for the moment. Yet deep inside, Romo was lonely.
Paul picked up the shot glass, weighing it in his hand. With a sudden twist, he poured it into his mouth. The whiskey burned going down. That was good…for the moment. He shouldn’t have any more, though.
“Take a girl,” Romo said. “I will give you your pick.”
“General Zelazny died,” Paul said. “I heard it over Army radio.”
“Who?” Romo asked.
“Did you ever meet him?” Paul asked. “Zelazny died fighting, holding out to the end in the Toronto Pocket.”
“We all die,” Romo said, shrugging. “It’s the living that concerns me.”
The dark-haired woman and her friend returned. They pulled out chairs and sat down, crossing their shapely legs. The blonde slammed Romo’s beer glass before him so golden liquid sloshed out onto the table.
The assassin never complained, but drained half the glass in a swallow.
“You’re thirsty,” the blonde observed.
Romo pointed at the dark-haired woman. She had large breasts straining to spill out of her skimpy blouse.
“What did I do?” she asked.
Romo pointed at Paul. “Do you see him?”
“He’s sitting right there,” the woman said.
“He’s the most dangerous man in America. There is no one like him. And do you know what is sad and noble at the same time?”
The dark-haired woman shook her head.
“He loves his wife and will only sleep with her. As beautiful as you are, as luscious as those tits staring at me are, he will not sleep with you. No, you are not good enough for him.”
The dark-haired woman cast curious eyes at Paul.
He glanced at her. She was beautiful, and it was clear she needed a man tonight. She needed to feel loved.
“Have you ever killed anyone?” the woman asked him.
“He’s used a knife before and shoved it into a man’s stomach,” Romo said. “I’ve seen him shoot Germans one right after the other. He’s even bayoneted them.”
“Gruesome,” the woman said.
Paul’s nostrils flared. He lurched suddenly to his feet.
Romo sat back, staring up at him.
“Did I say something wrong?” the dark-haired woman asked.
“No,” Romo said, as he stared at Paul. “He loves his wife. It has nothing to do with you.”
“See you tomorrow,” Paul said.
“Yes, my friend,” Romo said.
“Nice meeting you ladies,” Paul said, touching his forehead.
The dark-haired woman impulsively grabbed his wrist. She stood, and she pressed her luscious breasts against him.
“Where’s your wife?” she asked. “Is she still alive?”
“She’s in Reno,” Paul said.
“Oh. He wasn’t joking about her?”
“No,” Paul said, and he disengaged from the woman.
“You don’t want to…?” She cocked an eyebrow.
Paul smiled. It was a war-weary thing. He felt a tug to take off her clothes and just take her like an animal tonight. Cheri would never know, but he would know. He’d made an oath before God to her. He would come back alive through all this grim butchery. If he cheated on Cheri…would God continue to protect him? Paul didn’t think so. He had a mission. He saw that more with each passing day. He had a job to do, but he wasn’t going to compromise himself. He would stay faithful to his wife, so God would stay faithful to him, so he would fight faithfully for his beloved land.
Paul put both hands on the table and stared at Romo. Maybe the whiskey did a bit of talking now. Maybe he should just keep his mouth shut. But Paul Kavanagh didn’t think so.
“You’re my blood brother,” Paul said in the loud bar. “I’m saying this because you’re my friend. Find a woman you love—I mean one you would fight through Hell to defend. Find her Romo, and maybe…I don’t know. Just find her and forget about banging every piece of tail you can find.”
