Page 66 of Beehive
They’ve seen it!screamed in my head.
My finger tapped against Will’s hand, and an odd calm washed over me the way it always did when our skin met.
I tapped once, then a second time, then a third time. On the third tap, we moved, slipping around the pedestal and darting toward the far side of the room. The guards’ flashlights swung like wolf’s heads when the pack caught a scent.
We ran.
Shouts of alarm echoed behind us.
I turned into the first opening I found.
The corridor twisted, dim emergency lights casting eerie shadows on the walls. Behind us, the guards’ voices grew louder, their shouts more urgent.
A whistle’s shrill blared throughout the museum.
A second answered. Then a third.
As quietly as we could, we ran.
The corridor opened into another gallery, this one smaller but just as dark.
Will grabbed my arm, pulling me toward a side door partially obscured behind a heavy curtain. We slipped inside and closed it quietly behind us.
The room was empty, a storage area filled with crates and shelves stacked with artifacts. It was cramped, the air thick with dust.
“Keep moving,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “They’re coming.”
I nodded.
The sounds of the guards were closer, their voices the braying of hounds. Their Russian words were an angry blur, though their meaning was plain.
We moved through the storage room, slipping between crates and shelves. The exit was just ahead—a door leading back to the service corridor, the way we’d entered.
As we reached it, boots slapping cobblestone stopped us cold.
They were just outside.
I held up a hand, motioning for Will to remain still and pressed myself against a stack of crates. The door handle rattled. The creak of hinges sent a spike of fear.
The door opened.
Slowly.
A beam of a light flared.
A guard followed the light, his rifle’s muzzle scanning as his eyes did the same.
He said something in Russian, but there was no response.
Will moved silently, slipping behind a crate that towered above both our heads. His movements were so smooth I barely saw him go.
My fingers brushed the edge of the knife hidden in my belt, but I didn’t draw it.
Not yet.
The guard moved deeper into the room. His flashlight swept over the shelves, the crates, the shadows. He was close now—too close.
My breath caught as his light passed over where I hid, lingering for a second before moving on. He muttered, shaking his head, and turned back toward the door.
