Cal drew his Colt .45 as they dragged the cart toward the side of the road. The Russian rifle lay by his side. He would sell his life dearly. And drag out the gun battle if he could. Maybe in the chaos Greta and her parents could escape into the crowd. The cart dropped to the ground again and the blankets settled around him. A touch of breeze on his face and a crack of light through the blankets. A figure in a gray uniform moved through the sliver of light and Cal caught his breath. It was Little Hitler. The SS officer shouted at Hans-Peter, who answered back in a compliant tone. Cal moved his head a fraction of an inch, and they came into view. No sight of Greta or Helgard. To his credit, Hans-Peter stood straight in front of the Nazi, even though it made him look down at the shorter man as if with an insolent manner. He offered papers, and then turned his gaze straight ahead. The other man looked at them, let out a single bark of a laugh, and tossed the papers to the ground.
