PROLOGUE

Rome, October 1943

A faint whistle rang out over the hill, like birdsong dying out, and the rumble of a German convoy grew in its echo. Francesca’s heart pounded against the dirt of the embankment rising over the road. She lifted her gun. Up the street, at its crest, the first trucks appeared. They bumped downhill, followed by a long line of identical vehicles, their beds packed with everything needed along the front: ammunition, fuel, food. She peered over the gun’s barrel.

The convoy gained speed as it traveled downhill. She held her breath. The first trucks in line rumbled directly below her, and on cue, their tires burst. A half-dozen trucks skidded into one another, brakes squealing, and the air filled with the smell of burnt rubber. Uphill, trucks lumbered to a full stop and doors flung open. Drivers slid out, alert. Shouts ricocheted through the street. Not two minutes had passed, and the convoy was no longer going anywhere near the front.

Several dark figures gathered midway up the street, gesturing and spinning on their heels, weapons out. An explosion lit the hillcrest, bright as lightning, and the dirt vibrated under Francesca’s stomach. The Germans raised their guns, shouting and pivoting in the shadow of their loaded vehicles.

Another whistle sounded, and a dozen men sprang from hiding. Like spirits slipping from the shadows, slim and swift, they flung grenades and spezzone bombs into truck beds. A series of explosions thundered, and Francesca pressed her face to the dirt, protecting her eyes from debris. Ammunition crates caught fire somewhere, popping into a breathtaking crescendo. She glanced up as shards of hot metal rained down over the rest of the convoy.

The cacophony faded into human sounds: shouting and swearing and a few screams. Smoke swam over the street, shifting in the breeze, opening and closing channels. Francesca coughed, staring down the barrel of her gun, aiming toward clear patches, covering partisans. Her pulse hammered, and her eyes darted from figure to figure, but the rest of her stilled, finger poised on the trigger. She traced halos around her people, her mind quieting. It was like watching a field for movement, waiting for a burst of quail to rise into the sun. The same trance fell over her, like darkness.

The smoke shifted, exposing a Nazi as he aimed his pistol. She drew a bead on him and started to squeeze the trigger, but he lowered his arm as a partisan dove behind a truck, out of sight. She shifted her aim as well. She wouldn’t shoot unless she had to.

Gunfire sputtered uphill, but she couldn’t see it. An engine roared to life somewhere, gears grinding, and died back out. Movement caught in Francesca’s peripheral vision, and a tall figure broke through the smoke, a spezzone in hand, heading for a fuel truck. He skidded beside the truck, tossed the bomb on its running board, and sprinted away. Across the street, a Nazi lifted his rifle. She adjusted her aim. There was no time to hesitate.

She filled her lungs and fired.