What a rotter! For a chance impatience, the run had soured. Corbeau would die here and it was Glover’s fault. He could not have harmed the cause more if he had tried. It was unbearable. There had to be something that could be done. He started to pant as his panic and anger fought for dominance within him. As his chest rose and fell within the confines of his armored jacket, he felt a hardness rubbing against his skin. Bright Lord! He was an idiot whose poor memory disgraced his calling.