Page 84 of Beehive

It sounded like battlefield artillery.

I felt it tear through me, and watched my world turn to flame.

Visla stood before me, her pistol still aimed at my head.

Her eyes widened.

Then narrowed.

A flower of crimson bloomed across her chest.

She looked down.

One hand left her gun and felt her shirt. Fingers came away coated in red. She stared back at me, her eyes a story of both confusion and recognition.

She stared for only a moment, then toppled to the ground.

Will kicked her gun away and was by my side in a flash.

“Oh, God, Thomas! You fucking idiot. Are you all right? Are you hit? Talk to me, babe! I didn’t save you from the Nazis so you could die in this fucking hellhole. Don’t you die on me, Thomas Jacobs. Don’t you fucking do it.” His hands flew over my chest and shoulders, searching for holes where bullets pierced. Hiswords were rapid and panicked, on the verge of shattering with each syllable. Then his hands stilled, and a small boy begged, “Please, tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m okay.” My voice was hollow in my own ears. “We need to go.”

The motorcycle sputtered but started. I tried to climb on behind Will, but my arm finally gave out. There was no way I could hold on to the statueandWill, not the way my shoulder was blazing in pain.

I lowered myself onto the ground. Will gaped.

“Go. I’ll meet you back at the safe house.”

“Thomas, NO!”

“Go!” I said, stepping back from the bike. “I can’t hold on.”

“Then I’m coming with you, idiot. We’re not splitting up again, not ever.” He jumped off the bike and practically tossed it to the ground, still running.

“Lead the way,” was all I could think to say.

30

Thomas

“Stay alert,” I whispered.

We ducked behind a blown-out building. Will’s eyes kept darting to my bloody shoulder. Worry filled his face. I couldn’t really blame him. We were alone in a foreign sector under the control of our country’s most quickly rising adversary. Said adversary wanted what I held badly enough to spray bullets from Berlin to Paris. I’d been hit by one of their shots.

And the sun had barely risen.

We picked a path south, away from the bridge and the wreck. My feet shuffled over the uneven pavement, though the rest of my body begged for a rest. Blood had stopped seeping from my wound, but the pain grew with each block we traversed, and I could feel a fever blazing across my skin.

On top of everything, the aftertaste of violence lingered in my mouth.

I tried not to think of the dead men behind me, tried not to wonder if one of them had a family waiting somewhere. Thiswas war by another name; still, the humanity of it would surely haunt me in quiet moments to come.

As we navigated the ruined streets, Will and I kept our pistols drawn but low. My eyes never settled. Every broken window hid a marksman. Every alley was a trap.

But the city remained quiet.

Either no one wanted to risk poking their head out, or the Soviets had been too confident in their team. Maybe they hadn’t expected resistance, certainly not the kind we’d offered. They’d slipped up, and we’d made them pay for it.