Author's note: This story references Episode 21, "Ride of Terror", if you'd like to refresh your memory.
THE GIFT
The leaden sky reluctantly started to give up its burden around noon, and snow had fallen lightly since then, muffling the outside world. For the third time, Chief wiped the condensation off of the window with his sleeve, and looked out into the deepening gloom of dusk.
He felt like a fifth wheel. While he stayed behind in the warmth and comfort of the safe house, Garrison and Casino spent the days haunting bars and street corners, talking discreetly with the locals, trying to draw out their elusive contact. They were trying to find the unidentified person who'd sent a brief, urgent message to Headquarters saying that he was harboring Pete Bowers, the Allied agent who'd gone missing a month ago. In this remote area of northern Italy, the network of resistance fighters had fallen apart, and Garrison's only contact wasn't much help. He'd reluctantly let them use this abandoned cottage on the outskirts of town, but otherwise claimed that he didn't know anything about their missing agent, and didn't want to get involved. After two days, their efforts had turned up nothing.
Chief kept the fire going in the wood stove, had sharpened both of his blades, and cleaned his rifle and hand gun, and now he sat at the window, watching the snow drift lightly to the ground. He had gotten used to snow during his two years in New York. It made the world look new again, at least for a while. It could be beautiful, and it could be deadly. It was both pure and ugly, a delight and a curse. The undisturbed blanket left by this afternoon's storm was almost comforting.
Muffled footfalls of someone trotting up the street reached him before he saw the figure, bundled in a heavy hooded coat and stocking cap, emerge from the curtain of twilight and snow. Garrison pushed through the front door, a cold draft of flakes in his wake, and quickly closed it behind him. He pulled off the stocking cap, shaking the snow from it. "Damn, it's cold."
"Any luck?"
"No, still nothing." Garrison tugged off his gloves and coat and went to stand in front of the wood stove, holding his hands out to the heat. "We've been to every pub, cafe, restaurant, and pawn shop from here to the next village. If our contact doesn't know we're here, then he's dead."
"Maybe Casino will turn up somethin'."
Garrison turned around, letting the stove warm his back. "Maybe. I just hope Actor and Goniff are having better luck setting up our route out of here."
The remainder of the morning's coffee still sat in the pot, staying warm at the edge of the stove, and Garrison poured himself a cup. At the first sip, he made a face, but continued to drink it anyway. "I'll give it one more day before I call this whole thing off. Any longer, and we're going to start looking suspicious."
"So Casino's Italian is good enough to pass for the real thing?"
"Yeah, who would have thought Casino has a talent for languages." Garrison hung his coat on the hook by the door and took his coffee to the table in the center of the room. "He remembers a lot from his Italian cell mate, and his tutor has him sounding like a native."
At the thought of Casino's Italian tutor, Chief suppressed a smile. It had been the Warden's idea, when their mission to the German Embassy in Turkey had been in the planning stages. Garrison had thought it would be useful to have someone else on the team speak another language. He'd suggested that the Army bring an Italian POW down from Scotland, but they'd opted instead for a refugee who was already working for the intelligence service. Sofia Bianci had stayed on after that mission, to continue the lessons. And she didn't look like any teacher Chief had ever had.
Taking another sip of the day-old coffee, Garrison grimaced again and finally shoved the cup away. "Are Casino and Sofia...you know, are they...?"
"You mean is he bangin' her?"
Garrison rolled his eyes. "Yeah, is he bangin' her."
"Whadda you think?"
"Is it serious?"
"Why? You had your eye on her?"
"No, I'm sorry. You're right. As long as he does his job, it's none of my business."
Chief was actually surprised that the Warden didn't know. "At least he's learnin' Italian."
"And expanding his vocabulary, I'm sure."
"Sshh." Chief held up his hand for silence, and he stepped back to the window. But it was only Casino, brushing the snow off of his shoulders before coming inside. Another cold draft swept in after him, and Chief slammed the door shut.
"Anything?" Garrison asked.
"Yeah, I picked up a tail."
"And you led him here?" Chief didn't think Casino was that stupid.
"No, dummy. I told him to go get the 9th Panzer Division, then I'd lead him here." Casino stripped off his jacket and gloves and tossed them on the table, almost tipping the Warden's coffee cup. "What kind of an idiot do you think I am? No, wait. Don't answer that."
"So you lost him?" Garrison asked.
"Yeah, but I know who he is." Casino picked up the empty coffee pot and shook it, as if the motion would produce more coffee, then held it out to Chief. "Any more of this?"
"Do I look like your mother?"
"Your tail...?" Garrison prompted.
"He's the kid that hangs out at that bar on the main drag doin' odd jobs." Casino started opening cabinets, looking for more coffee. "He's been watchin' me. Just now he tried to follow me."
Garrison rose from the table and headed for his coat. "Let's go find out what he knows."
"Ah, c'mon, Warden. I just got here. I'm frozen solid."
"The sooner we find Bowers, the sooner we can head for home."
With a heavy sigh, Casino gave up his hunt for coffee and put his coat back on. Chief put on his own jacket, shoved his handgun in its holster, and joined them.
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The snow was tapering off, leaving about an inch on the deserted streets and sidewalks. They quickly walked the distance towards Salvatore's, the town's favorite watering hole, in the dying grey winter light and skin-numbing wind. As they approached the front door, it swung open, throwing a wedge of light across the white sidewalk. A young man pushed through backward, carrying a box in both arms. When the kid looked up and saw them, his eyes grew wide, he dropped the box, and tore off down the street.
"The little twerp." Casino took off after him. When the kid tried to round the corner, he slipped and sprawled in the snow. Before he could get back on his feet, Casino was on top of him, swearing in Italian, and lifting him up by his coat collar.
"Andiamo dentro," Garrison suggested as Casino dragged the kid back up the street. He opened the barroom door, and they followed Casino and his captive into the relative warmth. The place was empty except for the bartender, who looked up from his sweeping when they entered.
"Buona sera," Garrison greeted. "Possiamo avere quattro caffè, per favore?"
"E del cibo," Casino added.
Garrison chose the corner booth farthest from the bar and Chief sat next to him. Casino pushed the boy onto the bench on the other side and slid in, blocking his escape. He was a skinny kid, about 15, his coat worn and thin, his face red from the cold.
"I know why you are here," the boy said, his English coming out heavily accented.
Casino smiled. "Ya do, huh? Then why'd ya run?"
The boy squeezed into the corner, as far from Casino as he could get, his eyes still wide. "Signor Francesco said we had to be sure we could trust you."
"Is that why you tried to follow me?"
"You saw me?"
"You were hard to miss, kid."
Garrison started to say something, but hesitated when the bartender approached with a tray of coffee cups and a plate of bread and cheese. "Grazie," Garrison nodded, and watched as the bartender walked away, back across the room.
Finally he asked, "What's your name, son?"
The boy turned his frightened gaze from Casino to the Warden, but didn't answer.
Garrison tried again. "Who is Signor Francesco?"
When the boy remained silent, Garrison took a piece of the thick bread, spread some of the soft cheese onto it, and took a bite. Then he pushed the plate toward the boy. "Are you hungry?"
The boy sat up straighter and studied the plate of food, as if trying to decide if it was poison. Hunger won. He quickly stuffed a slice into his mouth and started spreading a thick layer of cheese on another. Then he washed it down with a gulp of coffee.
"My name is Garrison. This is Chief and he's Casino."
The boy stuffed another piece of bread into his mouth, looking like a chipmunk.
While the boy chewed, Garrison took a sip of his coffee. "Alright, you know who we are and why we're here. Now who are you, and who is Signor Francesco?"
"I am Aldo." He tried to push out past Casino. "Wait here, please. I will go get Francesco."
Casino didn't budge.
"Why don't we come with you?" Garrison suggested.
"Signor Francesco would be angry."
"Let us worry about that." Garrison tossed some bills on the table. "Let's go. Casino, hold onto him."
As Casino pulled Aldo from the booth, the kid grabbed the remainder of the bread and cheese and shoved them into his coat pocket. Just outside the front door, he picked up the box he'd dropped.
It was heavy, and Chief didn't like surprises. He pulled the top flap back. It held another loaf of bread, a jar of olives, half a bottle of wine, and a dead chicken.
"Salvatore sometimes gives me food," Aldo explained.
With a strong grip on Aldo's arm, Casino pushed him down the street. The clouds had emptied themselves of snow, and were breaking up, the nearly full moon giving the snow-blanketed street an eerie glow. Aldo led them through a maze of narrow lanes and squalid alleys until they came to a broken-down garage behind an abandoned house.
When Aldo started to push the door open, Casino held him back, and drew his side arm.
"Slowly," Garrison warned the boy. "We're right behind you."
The inside of the garage was pitch black and smelled of motor oil and rats. The voice that came out of the darkness sent a cold chill up Chief's spine. "Stop right there. Another step, and I'll blow you away."
Instantly the voice took Chief back to another black space, that reeked of blood and vomit, screamed with the souls of those who never came out, the memory of pain as intense as the real thing. His heart started to pound, and he fought down the spasm of panic that tightened his throat.
"It's me, Francesco." Aldo set the box on a work bench and lit an oil lamp, casting the inside of the garage in stark shadows. "These are the men who have been looking for you. They made me bring them here."
From the back seat of an old Packard at the far side of the garage, Colonel Frank Pryor stood up, pistol in hand. His frown turned into a smirk, and he shook his head. "I send out an SOS, and this is what those idiots at Headquarters send me."
The chill hardened to a knot in Chief's stomach. He had to remind himself that this time he was with trusted allies. This time he was the one with the weapons. He should have killed the bastard when he had the chance. "Mission's over, Warden. I ain't doin' this again."
Garrison ignored him, and holstered his pistol. "Colonel Pryor. What kind of mess do we have to pull you out of now?"
"Never mind, Garrison. Looks like I'll have to handle this one by myself."
Casino turned to leave. "Great. It's gettin' a little crowded around here for my taste."
"Casino." Garrison caught him by the arm. "The mission's over when I say it's over."
Garrison picked up the oil lamp and walked over to Pryor, setting the lamp on the hood of the Packard. "What's going on? Where's Bowers?"
"You're too late, Lieutenant. He's dead."
Garrison sighed. "What happened?"
"I said I'd handle it. You and your band of gorillas here can head right back to that safe, comfy mansion of yours."
"Don't tempt me, Colonel. There's nothing I'd like more." Garrison looked around the cluttered, drafty space. From the scattered debris, it looked like Pryor had been living here for a while. The only source of warmth seemed to be a gas heater in a far corner that wasn't working. "Is this your hideout?"
"Yeah. Rent's cheap," Pryor spit.
"We have a safe house on the other side of town with a little more heat. Why don't we continue this discussion there."
"Fine by me." Pryor turned to the kid. "Go home, Aldo. And keep your mouth shut."
"Si signore."
Aldo reached for the box of food, but Pryor pulled it away. "No, that comes with us."
"Let the boy keep the food, Colonel." Garrison picked up the box and handed it to Aldo. "We have plenty."
Aldo was out the door with the box before anyone could change their mind. Pryor just mumbled, "Stupid little twit's outlived his usefulness anyway."
Garrison held the door open and tapped Chief on the shoulder. "Take the point."
"I'll take the rear this time, Warden. I ain't lettin' him get behind me."
Garrison considered him for a minute, but Chief held his ground. Garrison finally eased off and headed out the door with Pryor.
gg gg gg gg gg gg
It was probably the promise of warmth and food that made Pryor agree to go. Though the wind had died, the air was still biting. The storm had driven the townspeople inside, but during the walk back to their safe house, they stayed in the shadows as much as possible, keeping watch for any movement.
Casino fell in next to Chief as they followed a good distance behind the two officers. "Think you can keep from killin' him this time?"
"Lay off, Casino."
"Hey, I'm just askin'. Cuz if you don't, I might have to."
Chief studied Casino in the pale light, trying to figure out if he was joking. He'd never taken Casino for a killer. For all Chief knew, Casino's only real homicide had been an accident, when he was a kid. Still, war changes you. If you can wipe out a squad of faceless enemies with one machine gun burst, then the idea of killing one man, for personal reasons, doesn't seem so bad.
The little cottage they'd called home for the past few days still held some warmth from the wood stove. Compared to Pryor's place, it was the Waldorf. Casino lit a lamp, then headed for their stash of rations and started sorting through cans. Chief put another log in the wood stove and stoked the embers. When the fire was blazing again, he pulled a chair over to the door and sat where he could keep Pryor in sight. As long as the man was alive and had a weapon, Chief wasn't taking any chances.
"So where are the other two?" Pryor asked. "They finally decide to head for the hills?"
"Actor and Goniff are arranging our escape route through France."
Pryor barked a laugh. "That dumb little limey couldn't arrange his way out of a wet paper bag."
"You better hope he can." Casino tossed several cans of C-rations onto the table. "He's your only hope of gettin' outta here alive."
The Colonel ignored Casino and studied the neat little room. "How'd you score this?"
Garrison lit a cigarette and took a seat at the table. "A little sweet talk and about 12,000 lira."
"That figures. What's left of the Resistenza around here certainly won't do anything out of love of country. They're all too scared of their own shadow."
"What happened?"
Pryor pulled out a chair and lowered himself into it. "The Nazis tortured and killed most of their leaders about a month back. Bowers got caught up in that sweep, too. Somehow he managed to get away, but by the time he got to me, he was in bad shape."
"When did he die?"
"Two weeks ago."
Garrison straightened in his chair. That meant Pryor had plenty of time to call off this mission. "Then why are we here, Colonel? As much as I'd like to return his remains to his family, we can't carry a dead body across half of Europe."
"Not his body, Lieutenant. The information he was carrying. I left his body out on the road for the Krauts to find."
"That's what the guy gets for sacrificin' his life?" Anger laced Casino's voice. "What if his family wants to bring him home after the war?"
"That's their problem, con. I planted fake intelligence on him, so he's still doing his job."
"A real humanitarian..."
"That's enough, Casino. What information?"
"A list of Nazi spies operating in England. Headquarters has been itching to get their hands on that for a long time."
Garrison's eyes flashed with excitement. "Where is it? We can head out with it as soon as it gets light."
"I don't have it."
The knife slipped smoothly into Chief's hand and snapped open with a sharp click. "A man died for that list. And you already lost it."
Pryor spun on him, eyes threatening. "I never had it, punk, and you better watch your attitude."
"Chief's right, Colonel. Where's the list?"
With one last glare at Chief, Pryor turned back to Garrison "He told me he hid it somewhere in the jeep he was driving when they caught him. Now the Krauts have that jeep at their outpost on the road east of town. I've been watching, trying to figure out a way to get in there. It's just a small setup, maybe a dozen soldiers, but they keep it locked up tight."
"Show me."
"I've studied it for weeks, Garrison. You ain't gonna find anything I ain't already considered."
"If we're going to get that list, I need to see what we're up against."
"C'mon, Warden. Can't we have dinner first?" Casino protested.
"You and Chief stay here. We'll eat when we get back."
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"Do you want the chicken or the ham?" Casino asked, juggling the hot C-ration cans off the top of the stove.
"Don't matter."
Casino took a seat at the table and pulled the top off of one of the cans. "Well, I had the chicken yesterday, so you can have it this time."
The smell of the warm food made his stomach growl. Chief let the curtain fall back over the window and joined Casino at the table. He pulled open his own can, and using one of the flat, dry crackers, dug into the mess of what was supposed to be chicken.
Casino looked up from his can of ham. "Hey, what day is it?"
Chief frowned at him. "I dunno. Wednesday, maybe."
"That means Christmas is three days from now. How 'bout that. Almost forgot."
"So?"
"Well, it's just that maybe there'll be a package from Ma waitin' for me when we get back. Ya gotta taste her Christmas cookies. She always used to send them to me in Leavenworth."
Chief went back to eating his chicken, half listening to Casino chatter on about his mother's baking skills. He only remembered one Christmas, the year he'd been in the mission school. On Christmas Day, all the kids had gotten a new pair of socks. One of the older boys had tried to take his, and they'd both ended up in detention, missing dinner. A week later he was shipped back to the reservation.
When he looked up, Casino was staring at him.
"What?"
"Don't worry. I'll share the cookies."
Chief went back to eating his meal.
"He must've been one hard-nosed screw." Casino broke the silence again between bites of his own dinner. "Glad I was never in his prison. How long were you there?"
"Fifteen months and two weeks."
"Spend a lot of time in the box?" Casino was watching him closely again. The question held more concern than curiosity. Casino had spent his share of time in solitary.
"Yeah. And the Pit."
"The Pit?"
"Where they took you to soften you up for solitary. A reward for his favorite bulls." The canned chicken suddenly tasted sour. He shoved it away, unable to force another bite past the knot in his chest. There'd been that huge Swede they'd called Baseballs, for the obvious reasons. He'd inflicted a special kind of pain. No one was surprised when he turned up in the showers, grossly mutilated. But then two guys had gone into the Pit and never come out again. And the one Pryor had called Mikey, who's methods of choice were a bull whip, salt, and rubbing alcohol. Then the two of them would stand outside the door and watch as you licked at the gashes you could reach, trying to stop the burn.
Chief wiped the sweat from his upper lip with his shirt sleeve, feeling like he was about to suffocate. He bolted out of his chair and grabbed his coat. "I'll stand watch."
"You don't have to go out there. It's freezing."
"It's too hot in here. You eat the chicken."
gg gg gg gg gg gg
Three hours later, Garrison had his pencil sketch of the German outpost spread in the middle of the table. "They have guards at both entrances, and patrols circling the perimeter at ten minute intervals. The fence is simple chain link, but it's electrified. You can handle that, right, Casino?"
"Yeah, no sweat."
"The front faces the road and acts as a check point for all traffic. But the rear backs up to the woods. We'll use that as our entry point. The barracks are here." Garrison tapped the square in the rear corner of the compound, then the smaller square next to it. "This is the storage shed where they keep the vehicles. It's not big enough to hold more than two jeeps."
Chief studied the drawing. It was as detailed and thorough as all of Garrison's maps, not a single important detail left out. "So what's the plan?"
"We'll never sneak into there in broad daylight," Casino pointed out.
"We'll hit it just before dawn. That's when the guards will be the least alert, right before change of watch. Casino, after you cut through the fence, you and Chief will head for the shed and search the jeep, while Pryor and I keep watch."
"That's not how it's happenin', Lieutenant," Pryor protested. "I ain't trustin' these goons with that list. I go in to look for it."
"Colonel, Chief knows those jeeps inside out. He's our best shot at finding it fast."
"Then I go in with him."
The narrow-eyed sneer Pryor leveled on Chief made his skin crawl. It was the face of his nightmares. Now it felt like the nightmares were coming to life.
Garrison's voice was quiet. "Chief? That okay with you?"
"Do I have a choice?" From across the table, he caught Casino's knowing frown.
"The list is important. You're the best man for the job."
Chief stood, shoving his chair back, never losing Pryor's glare. "Then I'll do my job. He better do his."
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They'd had to wait, crouching in the underbrush, while they gauged the guard's circuit, and that had cost them time. Chief had followed along the fence, keeping watch, while Casino looked for the spot where the power was connected, and that had taken more time. But once the connection was cut, and Casino had made sure the juice was off, they'd made their way back to Garrison and Pryor, hiding near the storage shed. Cutting a hole big enough for them to push through had taken more precious time.
At the large double doors on the front of the shed, Casino made quick work of the pad lock and dead bolt. Garrison pulled it slowly open just wide enough for Pryor to slip in. As Chief started to follow, Casino nudged him on the arm. His voice was a breath of a whisper. "I got your back, babe."
The dark interior was almost completely taken up by two identical jeeps.
"Which one?" Chief whispered.
"How should I know."
Chief huffed a frustrated sigh and went for the one on the right. He was relieved that Pryor took the hint and headed for the other one.
If Bowers had been in a panic to get rid of the list, he would have stuck it somewhere within easy reach of the driver's seat. Chief took a brief second to sit at the steering wheel and try to figure where he would have hidden it if he were about to get captured by the Krauts. He tucked himself onto the floor board and felt blindly under the dash, around every crevice and crack his fingers could find. Nothing. Then he tried the same under the seat. Something that felt like a wad of paper was shoved up into the front corner. He tugged, and it came out into his hand. Unwadding it carefully, he took it over to the nearest grimy window, the only source of pale moonlight. It was in German, but it was clearly a list of names and places.
As he headed for the door, he snapped his fingers and got Pryor's attention. Pryor joined him and snatched the paper from his hand, shoving it inside his jacket. Chief was about to protest, but it made no difference who had the list. They just needed to get out quick.
Machine gun fire shattered the still dawn.
"Damn, now you jerks have really done it," Pryor shouted above the racket.
Chief didn't stop to argue. He leapt behind the wheel of the jeep he'd just searched and pressed the starter. The big engine roared to life. "Get in!"
"You can't be serious..."
He didn't have time for this. Chief pulled his sidearm and pointed it at Pryor, sighting down the barrel to the spot just between the piggish eyes. His finger tightened on the trigger. His arm stiffened, ready for the kickback. He could end the nightmares now, seeing this man's face explode into a mass of blood and bone. "Get in or gimme the list."
One heartbeat. Two. His trigger finger twitched.
Pryor jumped into the seat next to him and he floored it, straight through the double doors, sending a hail of wood and metal ahead of them. Too late he saw the Kraut toss the grenade. He tried to swerve, but it rolled under the jeep.
The deafening explosion, like a huge hand, pushed him into the air and slammed him to the ground. He gasped for air, but there was none. Darkness rushed in, the gunfire faded, and someone screamed his name. Again, louder, a desperate banshee screech. He rolled to his side, toward the sound, and the heat hit him in the face. From out of the flames, half beneath the burning jeep, Pryor's face twisted, flickered, and melted. One arm flailed out, on fire, scrabbling at the dirt. Again Pryor's face contorted in a piercing scream. And the jeep exploded like a bomb.
Strong hands dragged him to his feet and pulled him toward the fence. He stumbled, but they held onto him until they pushed him through the hole, the sharp barbs of cut wire ripping at his jacket. Again he was lifted to his feet and half carried, half dragged into the woods, away from the chaos.
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The whine of the engine grew louder. He was in pain, but he couldn't figure out exactly what hurt. He remembered the explosion. The cold wind and the sudden heat. He was lying in the back seat of a car. He vaguely remembered crawling in. The pounding in his head made it hard to think. He tried to roll to his side, but the stinging burn in his left arm stopped him.
Garrison was watching him from the front passenger seat. "Take it easy, Chief. How're you feeling?"
"Don't know yet." Speaking hurt his throat.
"We'll reach the border in about an hour. We may have to walk across. Think you can handle that?"
"Yeah, I'll make it." He wasn't at all sure he could. In an hour, maybe. His head was clearing, the events of the night coming back one at a time. He closed his eyes and drifted away from them...
He was awakened by the car bucking and slowing. Then it jerked to a halt. From the driver's seat, Casino cursed. "God damn it to hell, why couldn't this be easy for once."
"Now what?" Garrison asked.
Chief knew the smell and the sound. "Sounds like your cylinders froze up."
"Hey, they're not my damn cylinders, babe!"
"Settle down, Casino. We're lucky we got this far." Garrison pulled a map from an inside pocket and examined it in the dull morning light. "We're still several miles from the border, and Actor's safe house is another couple miles past that. Looks like we hoof it sooner than we thought."
Chief pulled himself into a sitting position, pausing until his head stopped spinning. His left jacket sleeve hung loose, a charred hole burned near the elbow. His left arm was folded across his middle, held in place by his buttoned jacket. The searing wound had been wrapped loosely in clean gauze.
As he climbed from the back seat, Garrison came up beside him and started to unbutton his jacket. "Let me look at that burn again."
Chief swatted his hands away. He could unbutton his own damn jacket.
He suppressed a wince as Garrison pulled the gauze away from the wound.
"It doesn't look too bad. Your jacket protected you from the worst of it. How does it feel?"
"It's okay." It burned like it was still on fire.
"We'll take is slow. Let me know if you need to stop."
"I'm fine."
Garrison studied him for a moment, then pulled on his stocking cap. "I'll scout ahead. Casino, stay with him."
They'd walked in silence, Casino either at his side or behind him, the crunching of the snow the only sound. The cold, brisk air was clearing his head, and the movement worked the stiffness out of his muscles. His thoughts kept returning to the explosion, the smoke and flames, and the desperate agony in Pryor's screams. He wondered if they'd now be the images of his nightmares.
He figured they'd covered about three miles when the Warden headed back toward them through the woods.
"Take five, guys." Garrison brushed the snow from a fallen oak and sat down. "The border check point is just ahead, on the road. We'll need to be careful getting around it."
Chief settled onto the log next to Garrison, who offered him his canteen. The water was cold, and felt good on his scratchy throat.
Casino remained standing, carefully watching the woods around them for any sign of a German patrol. "I sure hope Actor and Goniff have food and a bed."
"Warden..." Chief paused. He knew he had to say it, but he needed to come up with the right words "I hesitated. I coulda done somethin', but I just laid there."
"There's nothing you could've done." Garrison tugged off his stocking cap and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Pryor wouldn't have survived long, even if you'd been able to get to him."
Chief's eyes met Casino's. Garrison didn't get it, but he knew Casino understood.
"Not him, Warden. I coulda gotten the list." He handed the canteen back to Garrison. "Pryor can burn in hell."
Garrison regarded him silently. Chief could only guess what the Warden was thinking, but it didn't matter. The list had been important, and he'd let it slip away.
Finally, Garrison shook his head and stood. "It's okay. We'll find another way to get it. Let's move out."
Chief rose, too, and eased his arm back into the sleeve of his jacket, even though the effort hurt. As he started off through the woods following his commander, Casino came up beside him, slinging an arm across his shoulder. "Merry Christmas, babe."