Grimly, she looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her bruised face grimaced back.
She could break the glass and try to slit her carotid artery—but the guards would hear the crash, and they would stop her before she could achieve her goal. She had already been through days of torture and deprivation. No, she couldn’t take much more. She would break, she knew it. Slowly, she went to the window, opened the curtains, and looked out. From the fifth floor, it was a long drop to the pavement below. No one could survive such a fall.
Striking while her courage still held, she opened the window and crawled out, finding footing on a rain gutter. If she killed herself, the secret of the Normandy sands and soil would die with her. The planned invasion would have a chance. She had confronted death back in Rouen and made her peace with it. She knew what she had to do. Only one thing tormented her: Who was the mole in the SOE? Who’d betrayed her?
The sound she made as her body struck the pavement was swallowed by von Waltz’s bellow of frustrated rage.