Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8 "Don't move!" the man shouted. He pointed a rifle at Victor's chest. He wasn't a Nazi; he was speaking French, and was wearing regular clothes. Paul had no idea who he could be. He wore a blue scarf across his face, like a bandit — or a murderer. Paul's heart stopped. He must be working for the Nazis!

He'd collect a big reward for catching Victor. And Paul? He'd get extra for him. Victor tried to talk to him. "My name is—" "Shut up!" the man said, his eyes darting all around. "Is anyone else with you?" "No," Victor said. "You better hope so. Now move it!" the man said. Before Paul knew it, they'd been shoved through the front door of the castle, pushed down a long, cold, and dark hallway, and thrown into a room. The door slammed shut. Paul's teeth were chattering, and not because it was cold in there. A foul smell of dead mice and centuries of rot rose up. If this wasn't a dungeon, Paul didn't know what it was. It felt haunted. But right now he wasn't afraid of any dragon or ghosts.

All he could imagine was Stroop's yellowed eyes and smiling face when he shoved Gerard into the back of a truck. "Paul," Victor said quietly. "Stay calm. I think I know who that man is." "You do?" "I think he's in the resistance." "The resistance?" Paul asked. "I thought the Nazis killed them all." Victor shook his head. "No, Paul. There are still thousands left." "But aren't we on the same side?" "Yes," Victor said. "But they can't trust anyone. We may have stumbled into some kind of resistance hideout." "This castle?" "It makes sense, doesn't it?" Victor said. "You said it yourself. It's the one place the Nazis won't go." Paul was afraid to feel hopeful, but then the door swung open. Standing there was a tall man

with wild gray hair, glasses, and a thick mustache. Paul's knees went weak. It couldn't be… could it? Mr. Leon was supposed to be dead.