Page 80 of Beehive

It really didn’t matter. The statue was all that did.

Dust choked my throat as I ducked behind a building and tried to peer around the corner.

The street beyond was wider.

The GAZ billowed smoke from its tailpipe as the men we chased shouted in Russian and piled into the back seat.

The shooter, a stocky man with a scowl and a PPSh-41 submachine gun, stood half out of the passenger door, his barrel pointed in our direction, ready to keep us pinned down.

We had only seconds to act.

Will gestured:I’ll go right. You go left.

I nodded.

On his count—three taps of my shoulder—we bolted from our hiding place.

My pistol barked.

I watched my bullet smash into the GAZ’s front fender, spraying sparks.

Will’s shot was more accurate, catching the gunner in the shoulder and spinning him around. He screamed and clambered fully inside the car as the driver floored it. The GAZ lurched, a spray of gravel and broken glass fanning out behind its wheels.

I sprinted behind, my lungs burning, my arm throbbing.

They were heading west along the rubble-strewn street.

Will kept pace, his coat flapping.

We would never catch them on foot, not if they got any momentum.

My mind raced—there had to be a way.

A side street.

An alley.

A useless shortcut.

I looked around, but all I saw were gutted structures and debris. The city was still a war zone. Then I spotted a motorcycle leaned against a collapsed storefront. It looked abandoned, its tires half flat, but if it still ran . . .

“The bike!” I shouted at Will. He turned and followed my pointing finger. “You have to drive.”

I vaulted over a chunk of masonry and nearly slipped on loose gravel but caught myself on the bike’s padded seat. Will kicked the stand free and tested the ignition. It coughed to life with a roar that sent pigeons scattering into the sky.

I jumped onto the back.

The moment Will twisted the throttle, the motorcycle lurched forward, bounding over broken pavement. The engine’s vibrations rattled my bones. They felt far worse on my shoulder.

Wind slapped at my face, and I gripped Will’s waist with my wounded arm, holding my pistol at the ready in my other hand.

The Soviets swerved, dodging piles of brick strewn about the road.

Another shot flew past us, digging into the dust.

I pressed myself as flat as I could behind Will, trying to present a smaller target.

The car’s taillights flickered as the driver hit the brakes, then accelerated again. He was trying to shake us off.