Sloan readied a petrol bomb outside Nazi headquarters. He held up the deadly liquid-filled bottle with the rag poking out. “I’m looking forward to some fireworks.”
Mica took his box of matches from his pocket and lit one. Before he could light the rag, the wind blew the match out. Mica lit another one, and a gust blew it out.
“You can’t light a simple rag?” Sloan asked impatiently.
“Not in this gale. We should have waited for a calmer night,” Mica said.
“Commandos wait for nothing. Light it again. Pretend it’s a Hanukkah candle.”
Mica smiled. He lit the match and cupped his hand around the flame to protect it from the wind. The match stayed lit, and he moved it slowly toward the rag.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish