For an instant the Sergeant’s right arm started to move, and in that instant he saw the andarte’s finger tighten on the trigger. He clenched the fist of his left hand and raised it above his head.
The andarte smiled thinly. “Very good. You may come with us in a moment.” He went to the bedroom door and opened it. “But first there is another matter to attend to.”
He beckoned Kyra into the room. She walked stiffly, her face a tear-stained mask of fear. She did not look at the Sergeant.
“This woman,” the andarte said with a smile, “was good enough to inform us that you were here. Her brother was a Fascist-collaborationist spy. Her object in betraying you was to convince us that she has a true democratic spirit. What do you think about that, Comrade Schirmer?”
“I think she is a Fascist bitch,” said the Sergeant shortly.
“Excellent. That was my own thought. You will learn fast.”
The andarte glanced at his companion and nodded.
The companion’s gun jerked up. Before Kyra could scream or the Sergeant could even think of protesting, three shots had crashed out. The shock waves brought down a small piece of plaster from the ceiling. The Sergeant felt it tap his shoulder as he saw the girl, her mouth still open, slammed against the wall by the force of the heavy bullets. Then she sank to the floor without a sound.
The andarte officer looked at her intently for a moment, then nodded again and walked out of the room.
The Sergeant followed. He knew that sometime when he was not so tired and confused he would feel horror at what had just happened. He had liked Kyra.