“Is there any more wood?” he asked.

“Very little,” replied Gregori. “We’ll have to find some more when it gets dark.”

Lockhart shivered. It was going to be cold sitting around in the cave all day. At least they had a few blankets—they would just have to huddle under those. He got up to fetch one. As he did so, a rifle shot rang out.

For a second, Lockhart froze. He looked down at Gregori and Vangeli, who looked back at him blankly. And then a whole fusillade opened up, coming from behind and above the cave. Lockhart ran to the back and picked up Manoli’s Marlin. He checked the magazine and returned, pulling back the cocking handle. Vangeli and Gregori were still transfixed.

“Come on!” Lockhart urged. “Get over here!”

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 Manoli was still looking at him, but the pain had been replaced by hate.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!”