The old church was cool and dim inside. The sound of quiet voices echoed softly through the nave, as the HeadHunters gathered at the front near the altar. Father Brenard stood among them, speaking in calm, measured tones, his hands occasionally gesturing as he offered blessings and quiet words of wisdom.

  Emmett lingered in the back row of pews, his crutch resting beside him, his side aching more today than he cared to admit. He sat stiffly on the edge of the wooden bench, his body heavy with the kind of restlessness that didn’t come from exhaustion, but from being left behind. His jaw was set, his eyes on the group ahead, though they were half-lidded with that bitter mixture of envy and resignation.

  Henri sat next to him, one arm draped lazily over the pew’s backrest, watching the others. The two men shared the silence for a moment.

  “You not interested in what the priest’s got to say?” Emmett muttered, his voice low and dry.

  Henri glanced at him, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Of course I am,” he said casually, keeping his voice just above a whisper. “But I’ll have my own time to speak with him later. Right now, I’m content to let them have theirs.”

  Emmett nodded slightly, letting his head fall back against the wall behind the pew. His eyes drifted toward the stained-glass windows, where colored light dappled the stone floor. “Still don’t like it,” he muttered. “Sitting here while you all are getting back out there.”

  Henri didn’t answer right away. He let the quiet hang between them before replying, “I know. I wouldn’t like it either.” He turned, his voice a bit firmer now. “But you must stop feeling so bad about something that wasn’t your fault. You’re lucky, Emmett. Gut shots don’t usually end this well. The fact that you’re upright and walking around at all? That’s a miracle mon ami.”

  Emmett didn’t respond, but the corner of his mouth twitched faintly. Henri clapped a hand lightly on his shoulder.

  “For now,” Henri continued, “you play the part of a quiet little villager. Father Brenard will keep you busy. He promised me he would. You’ve even got a bunk here at the church now. Cozy, peaceful. What more could a wounded man ask for?”

  Emmett huffed out a breath, part amusement, part reluctance. “Peaceful, huh? Not exactly what I signed up for.”

  Henri leaned back again, stretching slightly and letting his eyes wander the vaulted ceiling above them. “Well, consider it penance. For all the trouble you’ve caused us.”

  Emmett snorted.

  Henri turned to look at him again, more serious now. “You’ll be alright, Emmett. And we’ll carry on the work. We know what’s at stake.” Henri motioned to the others lazily. “You gave them three days. And they had time since our arrival here. They’re ready.”

  There was a beat of silence before Henri added with a sly grin, “Besides, in a month, you might be so comfortable here you won’t want to leave.”

  Emmett shook his head slowly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t count on it.”

  Henri grinned, leaning in just slightly. “We won’t forget to come back for you, mon ami.”

  “You better not,” Emmett said, turning to look him square in the eye.

  Henri chuckled. “You? Hard to forget. Like a stubborn stain.”

  Emmett rolled his eyes. “If you don’t come back for me,” he said, his voice low but laced with threat, “I’ll hunt you bastards down myself.”

  Henri gave a sharp, barking laugh. “Of course you will. You’d show up, cursing us in that dreadful French of yours.”

  They both laughed quietly. Soft, tired chuckles that faded into the reverent hush of the church.

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  Ahead of them, the fighters stood shoulder to shoulder, their heads bowed as Father Brenard’s final words drifted toward the rafters, words of strength and perseverance. When the final blessing was given, the men slowly turned and began filing out. Shoulders squared, boots echoing down the stone aisle with firm purpose.

  Luc passed by and clapped Henri on the shoulder. “We’ll meet you both at the truck,” he said over his shoulder.

  Henri nodded, exhaling a long breath as he stood, joints popping. Emmett followed with a slow groan, gripping his crutch as he got to his feet.

  Father Brenard approached with arms open wide, his robes flowing with each careful step. “They are in high spirits,” he said warmly in French, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

  Henri bowed his head respectfully. “You’ve been too kind to them. And to us.” Then he gave Emmett a clap on the back that was a little too enthusiastic. “Especially this prodigal son here.”

  Emmett scowled, wincing as the jolt shifted his side. “Thanks for that.”

  The priest smiled and inclined his head. “I will see to it that he is comfortable. He will want for nothing.”

  Emmett reached out and shook the old man’s hand, rough and calloused. “Thank you, Father. I don’t deserve it, but I appreciate it.”

  Father Brenard waved a hand dismissively and let out a huff, as if the very idea annoyed him. “Mercy is not about what one deserves, my son.”

  Henri stepped in to shake his hand too, a firm grip and an earnest nod. “Thank you for watching over him. He’ll give you trouble.”

  “That,” Father Brenard said with a knowing smile, “I expect.”

  The priest then turned to Henri. “Do you still wish to speak with me before you leave?”

  Henri gave a small smile and glanced at Emmett. “I do. I won’t be long.”

  Father Brenard’s eyes turned back to Emmett. “Would you care to join us?”

  Emmett shook his head with a faint smile. “I’m good. I’ll get my sermon another day. Don’t think I’ll be going far. Not for awhile.”

  Henri reached out and clasped his shoulder briefly. Emmett returned the gesture with a nod, then limped away down the aisle, the heavy church door creaking closed behind him and cutting off their voices with finality.

  Outside, the sky had brightened, the chill of morning still clinging to the breeze. It was a crisp, clear day. Birds chirped lazily from the eaves of nearby cottages, and a few villagers lingered on their doorsteps, watching the fighters prepare to leave.

  Emmett hobbled toward the old truck where the Headhunters were loading up crates and gear into the back. The engine sputtered occasionally as someone worked to coax it back to life. Luc and Jacques were tightening ropes around bundles of supplies, their sleeves rolled up, sweat already beginning to stain their collars.

  “You boys all ready to get back to it?” Emmett called out in French, his voice carrying just enough bite to be familiar.

  Jacques looked up with a grin, brushing his hands off on his pants. “Ready as ever monsieur Granger. Though without you around making everyone miserable, we might actually be happy for once.”

  Emmett raised a brow and did his best to look stern. “Henri promised me no one was going to so much as smile. Not one damn smile, or he’ll make that man regret it.”

  Luc leaned over the railing of the truck, extending a hand toward Emmett. They shook firmly. “Get better, cowboy,” Luc said, the usual sarcasm softening just a little.

  Emmett nodded, not trusting himself to say much. His throat was tightening, and he hated the feeling.

  A few minutes later, the church doors opened again. Henri stepped out, his coat slung over one shoulder, Father Brenard beside him. The old priest raised a hand, and the men paused their work, bowing their heads respectfully as he offered one final word of wisdom. A soft reminder of duty, of righteousness, and of hope.

  Then Henri turned to Emmett and offered a hand. “Rest well, mon ami,” he said, his eyes warm. “Enjoy the quiet. Enjoy Adele.”

  Emmett gripped his hand tight. “You, and the rest of you assholes,” he turned to face the truck, his voice suddenly deeper, more deliberate, “better stay safe.”

  There was a moment of quiet. Then a few of the men chuckled, nodding to one another. “We’ll try,” Jacques muttered. “No promises of course.”

  Henri clapped Emmett on the shoulder. “Do the same.” He said in English

  With that, Henri pulled himself up into the passenger seat of the old truck, glancing around the village like a man imprinting the scene into his memory. His hand slid along the window frame, eyes distant.

  Then he turned with a crooked grin. “Tell Isabella I’ll be back for her.”

  Emmett rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll pass it along.”

  Henri threw him a faux salute. “Much appreciated, monsieur.” Then, louder, “Alright, everyone, settle in!” He barked in French.

  The truck gave one last stubborn groan before the engine caught. With a lurch and a puff of black smoke, it began rumbling out of the square, creaking along the cobblestones.

  As it crested the hill at the edge of the village, Henri let out a whoop, sharp and joyful, cutting across the morning air. The men in the back answered with their own cheers, a cacophony of voices that rang through the village like a battle cry wrapped in laughter.

  Emmett shook his head, watching them go. “Fucking jackasses,” he muttered with a smirk.

  Father Brenard, standing beside him, placed a hand on his arm. “Come,” he said gently in French. “Let me show you your quarters, my son.”

  Emmett let out a long breath and nodded, casting one last glance toward the road. “Lead on.”