Page 79 of Beehive

If we hesitated, they’d be gone.

I heard a muffled shout, maybe a code word, then the roar of an engine.

They had a car waiting.

Of course they did.

I turned and raced down the stairs and out the front door, my gun ready in my right hand.

Will followed.

Behind us, from inside the safe house, I heard the old man curse.

Then a shot rang out—frominsidethe house.

“Don’t stop,” I called back to Will. “Follow the statue!”

The wind blew hot against my face.

The moment my boots hit the street, a gunshot rang out, echoing like a thunderclap on a stormy night. Chips of brick and mortar shattered nearby.

The Russians had at least one man covering their escape from atop a house across the street. I ducked and stumbled behind a tall shrub. It wouldn’t stop bullets, but it at least obscured their target.

I raised my pistol and fired twice where I’d seen the muzzle flash. Sharp, savage cracks rang my ears. At that angle, I doubted I hit anything.

Peering around the shrub, I watched as one of the fleeing men pointed down the street.

Their plan was clear: Get the statue and vanish.

If they succeeded, all our work would be undone. We had come too far and sacrificed too much. We had to get the Keeper back.

Another bullet whizzed by.

I looked back to where Will crouched beside me. It had missed him, too.

“On three,” I said.

I raised one finger, then two, then three.

We darted into the open, weaving through rubble. Will fired up at the sniper, forcing him to duck for cover.

We ran down an alley that opened onto a narrow lane surrounded by half-collapsed buildings that had once been homes. The Soviets were ahead, making for a larger thoroughfare on the left where a black GAZ-M1 waited.

The GAZ wasn’t the fastest car on the road, but it would get them clear of us.

One of the men wore a brown coat, the other a black one, and the black-coated man carried the statue cradled in one arm like a prized jewel.

There was no time for caution. Our boots slapped wet pavement.

A cough of automatic fire rattled from somewhere ahead. The Soviets were covering their retreat.

I felt a bullet hiss more than saw it as it slammed into my shoulder. I staggered back a step. “Fuck!”

“Thomas!” Will cried out, tossing our covers aside.

“I’m all right,” I said, waving him forward. “Go! Keep after them!”

My shoulder throbbed. I pressed a hand to staunch any bleeding and barreled forward. I doubted the bullet had hit anything vital but didn’t have the time to make sure.