Jacob's Oath by Martin Fletcher

door.
    Omri, pistol in hand, breathed out again. Topf pinned them with his eyes and whined
     for more. Ari placed a bone in his slobbering mouth.
    Omri eased the door open to find himself in a small hallway with a neat row of walking
     shoes and boots lined up beneath the coatrack. There was a set of stag horns above
     a mirror. He saw his reflection: coat, helmet, slit eyes, a gun. A shaft of light
     beneath the door to the left, the only light in the house, showed the way to Langenscheidt.
     Ari picked up a boot and quietly placed it against the wide-open front door, to keep
     it from slamming.
    He looked into Omri’s eyes and nodded: ready?
    Omri’s right hand held his Colt .45 at shoulder height, the safety still on. He didn’t
     want to shoot. He nodded back.
    Ari’s left hand held the doorknob. He squeezed it gently and began to turn. The slightest
     squeak and he would just throw the door open and barge in. But the more he could open
     the door undetected, the safer.
    The knob turned all the way, both men nodded again, and it was time. Ari opened the
     door, Omri went in first.
    It was a small room. Aiming the gun straight at Langenscheidt’s head, Omri stood before
     him in three quick strides. The Nazi was sitting in a chair at his desk, his mouth
     wide in shock, color draining from his face; they saw him turn white. One hand was
     in the air, as if to push them away, the other on the desk. Omri flicked his gun at
     the hand and it was in the air too. Langenscheidt was so shocked he didn’t say anything.
     As he began to collect himself and opened his mouth, Ari put his left index finger
     to his lips. He whispered in Hamburg dialect: “If you make a sound I will rape your
     dear wife and kill her.”
    At the front door, Ari looked from left to right, saw Topf busy with his bone. Behind
     Ari, Langenscheidt, his hands tied behind his back with the steel cord, glanced upstairs.
     Omri’s gun pressed below his right ear. “One sound and she dies,” Omri whispered.
    Ari gestured, Follow me, and they moved down the garden path. Omri was tall but Langenscheidt
     was taller, and broader, he was an ox. In the street they were alone in the dark,
     Omri’s gun now in Langenscheidt’s back, Ari leading the way. Langenscheidt began to
     say something but Omri pressed the gun harder and hissed: Shut your mouth.
    They came so silently Yonni started when they loomed before him. He was standing by
     the jeep with his Webley .38 in his hand. He looked at Langenscheidt with a face of
     pure hatred.
    “Who are you?” Langenscheidt said, at last. “What do you want?”
    Yonni said something in a strange language and stepped forward.
    “What are you speaking? Who are you?”
    Standing clear of the jeep, with Yonni’s pistol cold against the skin between the
     Nazi’s eyes, Omri and Ari took off their German helmets and combat jackets to reveal
     their brown British army uniforms. Omri stuffed the German clothes back into the kit
     bags. Langenscheidt took a step back. “You’re not German. You’re English?” he said.
     His voice was strong, he had regained his composure, he had the confidence of the
     biggest man in the room, even with his hands tied behind his back and a gun in his
     face. “What are you doing here, this is the American zone. You have no rights here.”
     And then he added, placatingly, “The war is over, what do you want?”
    Ari said, “Auch kein Engländer.” Not English either.
    Bluish light from the quarter-moon filtered through the clouds and the branches. They
     were all shadows, silhouettes in the woods.
    “You are SS-Obersturmbannführer Uwe Langenscheidt,” Ari said.
    “What? Who? Of course not, I am Winkler, Kurt Winkler.” Now he seemed confused. He
     looked desperately from man to man, and struggled with his bound hands. “I was never
     a Nazi. I worked on the railroads. I don’t know this man. This is a mistake, a terrible
     mistake.”
    “You are SS-Obersturmbannführer