The drive back from the western suburbs was conducted in a suffocating silence.
They had just arrived at the designated killing fields, only to be turned back like misbehaving children by a low-ranking German communications corporal. It wasn't just an insult; it was an anomaly that defied every protocol of the Milice.
Adelaide de Molay stared out the window of the Traction Avant, her expression unreadable, though her mind was a tempest. Ma Shangcheng, sitting in the car behind her, was less subtle. Through the rearview mirror, she could see him gesturing wildly, his face flushed with a mixture of confusion and suppressed rage.
"Damn them," Ma Shangcheng muttered as soon as they parked in the courtyard of 83 Avenue Foch. He slammed his car door so hard the glass rattled. "They didn't eve
