Nathaniel Cannon and the Secret of the Dutchman’s Cross No. 55

Cannon let out a sigh of relief and keyed the mic again. “Whiskey flight, we’ve got a little Tommy problem developing. Over.” He slung the radio pack over one shoulder and took di Giacomo’s hand up into the bed of one of the newer trucks.

Emma’s voice crackled from the speaker. “What’s that mean, over?”

The truck rocked as Masaracchia shifted into reverse, and Cannon sat heavily on a long crate pushed up against the back of the cab. “Whiskey flight, it means we’ll have to call you back. Get ready to improvise, and if you could come up with a distraction, that would be just swell. Over.”

“Copy that, distraction, over.”

“We’ll be in touch. Over and out.” Cannon returned the handset to its hook, collapsed the antenna, and set the whole unit down. All around the workhouse, a good dozen of Masaracchia’s allies loaded crates into the other two trucks.

Iseabail and Burr heaved the last of the packs into the back of the truck, and di Giacomo helped them in. Cannon rapped on the cab’s rear window, and at Masaracchia’s direction, two of the monks pulled open the door in front of Masaracchia’s truck.

As it rolled out into the street, a soldier pounding on a door fifty yards away shouted, “Oi! Stop!”

“We’ve been made,” said Burr.

The soldier ran after the truck for a few steps, then came to a stop and raised his rifle. Cannon dropped prone as the soldier’s Lee-Enfield flashed. A bullet whizzed past, then Masaracchia spun the wheel. The truck slid around a corner and picked up speed.

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