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his lungs. 
                At least he makes a soft cushion , she thought with a grin as she rolled off him. 
                The Russian came next, flying through the air and landing hard on the balcony - fortunately for Degiorno had crawled out of the way this time.  Bridget looked across the space at Mike Hannigan as he charged the edge of the balcony he was on.  He got a foot on the rail, just as she and Gregor had done and vaulted into the open.
    Except he hadn’t jumped far enough, he was falling short of the balcony. 
    Bridget realized in an instant that he wasn’t going to make it and charged to the railing, reaching out to catch Hannigan’s wrist in both her hands.  His weight threatened to drag her over the rail, but strong hands encircled her waist and held her as she supported Hannigan.  His other hand finally caught the rail and she helped him pull himself over it.
                “I hate when that happens,” Hannigan gasped.  Then he looked deep into her eyes.  “Thanks, you saved my life.”
                “Just returning the favor,” Bridget replied with a shrug, looking away from his intense gaze.
                “Can we move this along?” asked Shotsky, exasperation evident in his tone.
                “Good idea,” Hannigan said, climbing to his feet.  He checked his waistband; miraculously he hadn’t lost the Colt—and was distracted just long enough to run headlong into the doorpost.  He spat out a curse along with a mouthful of blood from his split lip. 
                Bridget shook her head in despair.  “Mike Hannigan, you have the hardest luck of any man I have ever met.”
                “Ha!  Hardluck Hannigan.”  Shotsky laughed.  “The name suits him.”
                “Can we get out of here before the Nazis find us?” Degiorno begged, still gasping for breath.  The Nazis might not get him, but Bridget wondered if the fat Italian might not end up dying of a heart attack before the day was through.
                “Good idea,” Hannigan said, pressing a bandana to his mouth as they entered the room.  It was deserted, which was a good sign.
     
                If Hannigan's cursed luck doesn't continue to plague us, Bridget thought, this just might work.  They could hide out here until the Nazis decided to look somewhere else, and then slip away to her plane.  Once there, she could fly them upriver to the Mission, where the Nazis would never think to look.  She only hoped her father was meeting with similar success.
     

Chapter Five
     
    Niles McKenzie faded into the shadows as the Nazi force crashed into the bar, bristling with weapons.  The men fanned out and for a brief moment, he wasn’t sure he would be able to hide, but then the gunfire erupted outside and their attention was diverted.
     
                McKenzie slowed his breathing, willing the ambient light to wrap around his form to conceal him in the darkness, becoming a living shadow.  He had learned the ancient technique at a Tibetan monastery. The monk that had instructed him had mentioned teaching the technique to one other American, a pilot named Allard who had spent time in the mountains following the Great War, but as far as he knew, no one outside that forbidden place had mastered this ability.
               
                It took only a few moments for the Nazis to divide their numbers, half running back outside, half charging up the stairs.  The ones going up concerned him the most; Bridget had gone that way, along with Mike Hannigan and Degiorno. 
                Cloaked in the concealing shadows, McKenzie moved up the stairs behind the invading force. 
                He wasn’t sure what he would be able to accomplish.  He had no weapons; he had forsworn their use following his entering the priesthood. Yet he still practiced the