Page 69 of Beehive
My pulse was a drumbeat in my ears. I was sure anyone nearby could hear it.
The guards passed the alley.
One shadow.
A second.
Three more.
They didn’t stop. They didn’t even look our way.
Their voices and footfalls faded into the distance.
“Keep your head down, Will,” Thomas hissed, his tone low. “And for God’s sake, don’t look like you’re taking notes on everything you see.”
“Right,” I muttered, adjusting my hat.
Thomasneversnapped at me. That he’d done so told me just how badly I was executing our well-practiced tradecraft. I tightened my grip on the strap of my satchel and forced my gaze to stay fixed ahead, though my eyes itched to take in the scene around us.
I had no idea where we were.
The streets were narrower, more broken. Rubble from bombed-out buildings spilled into the walkways, forcing us to step carefully. Every step kicked up a fine layer of ash and dust that clung to our shoes and pants.
A woman bundled in layers of threadbare clothing dragged a child by the hand. She didn’t look at us, her eyes fixedsomewhere far away. Like us, she was breaking curfew. I wondered what drove her to risk the ire of her Soviet governors.
Visla adjusted her stride.
“Turn left up ahead,” Visla murmured without looking back.
“Why?”
“Because the patrol two blocks over will be here in less than five minutes,” she said, her tone calm as ever.
How did she know?
We turned left, slipping into a narrow alley that smelled of rot and urine. Visla paused at the far end before motioning for us to follow.
As we turned down another narrow street, we encountered a group of soldiers unloading crates from a truck. Their shouted orders and grunts of effort echoed through the ruins. Visla didn’t alter her pace, but she did adjust her posture, adopting a slightly more deferential air.
I lowered my gaze and again avoided eye contact.
“Whatever you do, do not look at the crates,” Visla hissed.
Naturally, my curiosity flared, but I forced myself to keep my eyes forward.
Visla nearly missed a step. Turning her head quickly, she whispered, “They have seen us. We cannot run away. We must walk by as though we belong here.”
“After curfew?” Thomas asked.
“Even so.” Visla’s nod was curt. “Follow my lead.”
She had planned our route carefully, but plans rarely survived first contact with reality on the ground. A checkpoint she hadn’t anticipated blocked another street we were meant to take.
“Detour,” Visla said, veering down a side street without hesitation.
Buildings loomed, reminding me of an ancient forest where trees that reached the clouds held court. Aging walls werepocked with bullet holes. A twisted metal staircase jutted from one facade, leading to nowhere.
Visla stopped abruptly, holding up a hand.
