Blood of Vipers by Michael Wallace

had no idea what this
     meant, if
     anything, but he doubted this man would know either. “If
     something happens to these
     people, I will register my complaint at the highest levels and
     will pursue the
     matter until justice is served.”
    As he said this, a frown settled over the
     Russian officer’s
     face. “We are going to have a problem, Lieutenant, if you insist
     on this farce
     about American prisoners. This is Soviet-controlled territory
     and any prisoners
     are mine.”
    “Controlled? I still hear gunfire. For all we
     know this
     position will be overrun with Germans by nightfall. Or
     Americans. You don’t
     control anything.”
    “Why are you protecting these Germans?”
    “Because I took them prisoner, and I have
     obligations.
     Surely you understand that.”
    “I understand that you are protecting fascist
     pigs,” Osimov
     said.
    The Soviet troops were muttering to each
     other now. Someone
     must have understood, or guessed at where this was going. They
     were going to be
     cheated of their revenge. And their pleasure. Did this one
     officer have the
     ability to hold them back, even if he wanted to?
    Cal had to give them something, to show he
     wasn’t their
     enemy. His eyes fixed on the SS officer, who rose to a sitting
     position. Blood
     streamed down Little Hitler’s mouth and a nasty gash opened in
     the side of his
     head. His clothes were torn and he wrapped one arm around his
     ribs and touched
     the wound at his head with the other. He looked stunned, like a
     man who has
     never imagined he could be in the same position as those he had
     once abused.
    “But not this one,” Cal said. “This one is an
     SS officer and
     a war criminal. Further, he murdered one of the other
     prisoners—his own
     lieutenant. You would be doing me a favor if you took him off my
     hands.”
    Osimov smiled, even looked a little relieved.
     “Now you’re
     being reasonable.”
    He snapped something in Russian and several
     men converged on
     Little Hitler and dragged him to his feet. They drove him to one
     side at
     gunpoint, and he staggered forward, barely able to keep his
     balance. While eyes
     turned on the man, Cal dared a glance at the refugees.
    Greta and Helgard stood in the silent knot of
     women who
     clung to each other in terror, waiting their fate. The elderly
     women had been
     allowed to sit with the children, while the German men,
     including both the
     minister and the two Wehrmacht soldiers, lay on their bellies,
     face down, with
     their hands behind their heads.
    The Soviets stopped with the SS officer a few
     dozen yards
     away. The jeering, punching attacks resumed. The German screamed
     for mercy, or
     for help, or maybe cursed threats.
    Cal turned back to Osimov, unsettled. “Can
     you put me in
     contact with the American army? I have to turn over my prisoners
     and get back
     to my unit.”
    “And your so-called prisoners?”
    “Take them with us.”
    “I’m afraid that wouldn’t work. What would my
     men say?”
    “You’re their officer. Give them orders.”
    “Have you ever seen a dog fight, Lieutenant?”
     Osimov asked.
    Cal had a hard time concentrating with all
     the screaming
     from the SS officer. “No, sir.”
    “I did, I’m afraid to say. Lower East Side,
     immigrant
     family.”
    So he was an American. That explained the
     accent, at least.
    “Ran with a rough crowd until my father moved
     us back during
     the Revolution,” Osimov continued. “Thing about those pit dogs
     is that they do
     what you want, so long as they’re scared of you. Minute they
     lose that fear,
     they tear off your hand. And these dogs are hungry. I have to
     feed them something.”
    Cal glanced at the SS officer still suffering
     his abuse.
     “They’re eating right now.”
    “A snack. They’ll eat those other men, too,
     but that won’t
     be enough. The pretty women are the main course.”
    “You can’t let them do it.”
    “Why do you care? Is one of these