The two andartes reluctantly crawled over to Lockhart. They looked terrified, their rifles shaking.

Lockhart stuck his head over the lip of the cave. Running toward them, holding up his breeches with his left hand, was Manoli. More shots were fired, kicking up chunks of snow around Manoli’s ankles. There was little Lockhart could do apart from urge him on.

“Faster, Manoli!” he screamed. “Faster!”

The Cretan was only fifteen yards away, but the snow and his loose breeches were hampering him. He looked up at Lockhart, his eyes wide with terror.

“Run, Manoli, run!”

The first bullet that hit him smashed into the back of his right shoulder. It knocked him flat into the snow, which quickly started to go pink, and then red. He lay still as another two rounds narrowly missed him, then looked up at Lockhart, his face contorted with pain.

The second bullet punched into the base of his spine. Manoli screamed. With each intake of breath, he got louder and more desperate. He knew he was dying.

Without thinking, Lockhart started to get up. Gregori pulled him back down.

“It’s too dangerous!”

Lockhart turned to face him, tears in his eyes.

“I can’t just bloody stay here!”

He looked up again. Manoli was still looking at him, but the pain had been replaced by hate. Blood was pouring out of his mouth.

“You…you,” Manoli gasped. “You…traitor.”

“No, Manoli!” Lockhart screamed back. “No!”

And then Manoli’s head shattered. Fragments of his skull and brain kicked up in a beige and red mist and then scattered into the snow. Lockhart continued screaming, just repeating that one word, “No!” He tried getting up again, and it required both Gregori and Vangeli to restrain him. Lockhart fired the best part of the magazine into the air.

“You bastards! You sodding fucking bastards! I’ll fucking kill you!”

The two andartes held their grip on Lockhart until they felt his body go limp. Lockhart buried his face in his hands and sobbed. He had killed his friend—it was his fault.

“Captain Lockhart!”

Lockhart didn’t notice Fasshauer’s voice at first.

“Captain Lockhart!”

It was coming from above the cave.

“Lockhart! If you don’t leave the cave immediately, we’ll blow you out with grenades! Do you hear me?”

Lockhart didn’t reply.

“Do you hear me? Once more, if you don’t leave, you’ll be blown up! Come out with your hands up!”

Lockhart turned to Gregori and Vangeli.

“We’ve got no choice.”

They nodded. Together the three men stood up, and walked out of the cave, away from Manoli’s body.

“Just shoot me, Fasshauer!” Lockhart shouted. He turned to look up the mountain, and there was Fasshauer, thirty yards above them, crouching behind a rock.

“I don’t want to shoot you, my friend! You’ve been a great help by allowing us to follow you here!”

Lockhart let his head drop onto his chest. The one person he hated more than Fasshauer was himself.

OCTOBER 1949

“We all know about your father.”