36

Thomas

I heard his footsteps before the key turned.

I was on my feet before the door opened.

The moment the door closed behind, my arms were around Will, pulling him close, willing him into me. The cold on his coat bled through to my skin, but I didn’t care. I gripped him like the ground itself had fallen away and he was the only steady thing left.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did I.

I kissed him like we were already out of time.

His lips were stiff and chapped. The stubble of his jaw scraped mine. I twined my fingers in his hair and clutched the back of his neck like I’d been reaching for something solid all night and only just found it.

When we broke apart, his breath ghosted over my lips. I could taste the street on him—smoke, iron, adrenaline. His eyes shimmered with a kind of exhausted triumph. Mine shimmered with relief.

I pulled him close again, pressed my forehead to his, and whispered, “Tell me you got something. Tell me this is all worth it.”

Will didn’t speak.

Instead, he crossed the room, grabbed the notepad from the dresser, and scribbled two words: Found her.

My stomach clenched.

Every part of me lit up at once—fear, relief, anxiety, love.

I took the pen from him and scrawled beneath it: We need to get the others now.

He nodded once, his jaw set, then he walked to the tiny hotel desk and lifted the telephone receiver with practiced calm. The Soviets had bugged everything—we all knew it—which meant this had to sound casual, routine, innocent even.

He dialed. The line clicked. A pause.

Then his voice sang, cheerful, just light enough.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Weiss. Henry here. Dr. Beckett was just complaining of an empty stomach. I fear, if his condition persists, he may perish before the sun sets—or so his dramatic flair indicates. Are you and the lovely Mademoiselle Moreau free for lunch?”

A pause. Static.

Then a muffled laugh.

“Perfect,” Will said, glancing back at me with a glint in his eye. “We’ll meet you downstairs at your hotel in half an hour.”

He hung up, exhaled through his nose, and rolled his shoulders.

“That was almost convincing,” I said, crossing the room again. “But did you have to make me sound so weak? Starvation? Seriously?”

“I was inspired. Besides, have you met yourself when you’re hungry?” he replied, and pulled me in for another kiss—this one softer, but no less urgent.

The walk to Egret and Sparrow’s hotel was pleasant enough. The sun shone overhead with barely a cloud marring the crystal sky. The people we passed, likely out shopping or strolling, smiled and nodded warm greetings. Even the uniformed Soviets patrolling the streets appeared in good humor, offering toothy grins—until they noticed our obvious shadow. Then all humor drained from their faces, along with most of their color. No one wanted to be on the wrong side of Stalin’s secret soldiers.

Egret and Sparrow were already waiting on the front steps of their hotel when Will and I arrived. Egret leaned against the wrought-iron railing like he’d been born lounging, and Sparrow stood with her arms crossed and her coat buttoned to her chin. She wore a black skirt with a crisp white shirt and a black coat. Her only hint of color was her brilliant crimson scarf. She was the picture of a Parisian woman out for a stroll.

Across the street, our tail took up a position a few yards from theirs. Neither spoke, though a quick handshake of the eyes acknowledged the other’s presence.

“We’re actually eating?” Egret whispered as we approached. There was no one within earshot, but we could never be too sure. “No field rations? No three-day-old pastries wrapped in lies?”

Will grinned. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

Sparrow’s mouth twitched, but her eyes scanned the street behind us before softening. “You look like you’ve been dragged through a trench backward, mes ami .”

Will offered a crooked smile. “Feels about right.”

We didn’t say anything more—not yet. There were no updates—no mission talk—just the practiced rhythm of four people walking through occupied streets as if we were tourists, or diplomats, or nobody at all.

Sparrow filled some of the silence by pointing out various birds and expounding on the origins of each species. I found her exposition enlightening, if a bit academic. Egret looked like his eyes might roll out of his head and bounce down the street, just to get away from the academic drivel. Will grinned, keeping his thoughts to himself, but apparently enjoying the show.

We strolled two blocks before turning down a narrower side street. The wind snuck between the buildings, tugging at scarves and coats and hair. There were a dozen restaurants hidden throughout the neighborhood, most with curtains drawn or signs half hanging. One reeked of boiled cabbage. Another was too empty to trust.

Then we passed a narrow shopfront with two small tables out front and a fogged window behind which unidentifiable shapes moved. The sounds of eating, chatting, and laughing drifted out.

And the smells hit us.

Garlic, yeast, some kind of meat roasted to perfection.

We all stopped.

Egret was the first to proclaim, “Oh, hell yes.”

Will opened the door.

Inside, warmth and irresistible aromas wrapped around us like a memory. The floors were scuffed wood, the lighting dim, and a single string of bulbs wound along the ceiling like it had been borrowed from a long-forgotten festival. Locals filled three of the five tables. Some spoke quietly, while one table howled with unrestrained delight at some joke we’d just missed.

Sparrow headed for the table near the back—a booth by the radiator—and sat.

The three of us exchanged a glance and a shrug, then followed suit.

Menus were delivered with nods, not words. The woman who set them down looked at us like we were ghosts who might vanish if she blinked. We placed quick orders, and she fled into the kitchen.

Will didn’t wait.

He reached for the napkin holder, pulled a square free, and set his pen against it with careful precision. Egret and Sparrow leaned in. She’s being held in a safe house north of the train yard. It’s an old wooden building, looks like a mansion from the street. Iron gate. Guards at the gate, likely more on the grounds. I watched them take her in.

Egret let out a slow breath.

Sparrow’s brow furrowed, her fingers tightening around her menu.

I reached for the pen next and added a line:

Surveil tonight. Extraction tomorrow night. You two get Shadowfox. We get the girl. The longer we’re here, the greater the chance they catch on and move her.

Then I looked up, met all three of their gazes. They nodded—each of them—and the silence that followed wasn’t fear.

It was resolve.