Schwarz’s machine gun was sandwiched between them. Meanwhile, the other NCO was struggling to get up from beneath them both. And what of Leni’s NCO? No time to think about that—he just had to hope Leni was doing something. If he got a bullet in his back—well, at least he had tried. He had to get the gun before the NCO could break free. He reached down and tried to wrestle it away, but Schwarz’s grip was too strong. With all his might, he head-butted Schwarz in the face. There was no scream, just a sickening crunch of bone and sinew. Schwarz’s grip relaxed. Lockhart grabbed the gun and pointed it clumsily at the NCO, who had nearly got free. There was nothing else for it—he had to fire.

The sound of the gun in the enclosed space felt loud enough to burst his eardrums, but Lockhart’s attention was focused on the NCO. His head had shattered, sending a spray of bone and tissue over the floor and wall. Lockhart rolled off the unconscious Schwarz and turned to Leni.

She was struggling with the second NCO and getting the worst of it. But at least she had tried—had she not done so, they would both be dead. Lockhart raised his gun and calmly took aim at the German’s thigh. He squeezed the trigger gently, punching half a dozen rounds into the NCO’s side. The man’s face grimaced, contorted in agony, and fell back behind the bed, taking Leni onto the floor with him. He started to scream unbearably loudly.

Lockhart ran around and pulled Leni out of his clutches. She was splattered with the man’s blood, and she had a black eye. He pushed her behind him, and stood over the NCO, who was clearly dying. It would be unfair to let him suffer, thought Lockhart. He wasn’t the monster they were. He pulled the trigger and fired one round into the left of the man’s chest. The sound stopped immediately.

The room went quiet. Lockhart and Leni stood in a state of shock amid the reek of gun smoke and death. Lockhart stared at the second NCO, at his face, set in an expression of utmost pain. The pool of blood seeping from him reminded him of Worstead lying on the cobbles.

“Rudolph!”

At first, Lockhart didn’t register Leni’s shout.

“Rudolph! Lockhart, look! He’s not moving!”

Lockhart shook himself out of his reverie.

“What?”

“Rudolph’s not moving!”

Lockhart turned to the bed. Rudolph had turned slightly blue.

“Christ!” said Lockhart, dropping the machine gun. “He’s had a bloody heart attack.”

Lockhart put his head to Rudolph’s chest—nothing. He then checked for a pulse at the wrist. Again, there was nothing. He opened Rudolph’s mouth and looked to see if his airway was blocked. It wasn’t.

“Shit!” said Lockhart, thumping the mattress. “Shit! Shit!”