Trying to make it
Goldstein would have cursed himself for being so stupid if he could have mustered enough breath to do so. Tennis a couple of times a week simply didn’t keep him in shape enough to handle the steep trails, especially at this altitude. His breath was ragged and he felt like his lungs had caught fire. To make it worse, the trail he chose did not take him far enough around the roadblock as he hoped. He was trying to be as quiet as possible. But the suitcases he was carrying kept hanging up on the low branches in the forest. He stopped long enough to look down the ridge. Fear gripped him when he spotted at least four shadows making their way up the side of the mountain. He could see them in the beams of their small flashlights. Damn it! What was he going to do? Give up, or take off running? Running was out of the question; Goldstein was already just about done in. He could see the rifles the men carried were now un-slung. He knew he was in trouble. Goldstein redoubled his effort and started scrambling up the trail as quickly as he could. But it was futile; the soldiers were gaining on him. He could hear them shouting to each other as they maneuvered to cut him off. The beams from the flashlights began to play over the limbs of the trees he was fighting through. They were about thirty yards behind him when the first burst of automatic fire ripped through the trees next to his head. He flung himself to the ground and covered up. Holy shit, they were firing at him for no reason. They were going to kill him right there.
