Page 82 of Beehive
The GAZ teetered, half in the air, half on the bridge, its front wheels dangling over the drop.
The driver hit the gas again, trying to break free, but the car only twisted sideways.
Its weight shifted.
The bridge groaned.
With a horrific shriek and a cloud of dust, the car tipped front-first off the edge of the bridge.
Will pulled us up to the canal, a high point a dozen yards from the bridge. The car hadn’t plunged fully beneath the water—only slammed into the rocky embankment and rolled onto its side, half submerged.
I leaped off first, my pistol raised and lungs burning.
A concrete stair led down.
I took the steps two or three at a time. Will raced behind me.
Men were scrambling to get out of the car. The windshield was shattered. Blood streaked their faces.
One man saw me and froze, reaching for a weapon.
I fired twice.
He dropped.
Another tried to hide beneath the car.
Will fired at him—a single, brutal shot that took the man in the back.
Black smoke billowed from beneath the hood.
The acrid scent of gasoline grew stronger as we neared.
Two Russians were down. Where were the other two?
The driver moaned somewhere inside the wreckage. The submachine gunner, wounded from before, leaned out of his window and tried to steady his weapon.
I darted behind the rear bumper to avoid his line of fire.
Shots ricocheted off concrete.
Will moved swiftly, circling from the other side, and took his shot.
Another grunt, another shriek.
The Soviets were done.
“We’ve got to move. They’ll be here any minute,” I shouted.
The last man—the driver—reached a trembling hand out the window, shouting something in Russian. I didn’t understand all of it, but it sounded like a plea. I stepped closer.
This was no time for mercy.
They would not have spared us.
The man tried to raise his pistol—a small sidearm. I fired once, a clean shot between his eyes. He fell forward onto the horn, announcing our presence throughout the eastern quarter.
The statue, my brain screamed. That was what mattered.
