Page 83 of Beehive
I threw open the car’s door and rolled the man out, searching the front. Will pointed at the second man we’d shot, the one lying face down on the ground. His body lay at an odd angle, as though he’d fallen on top of a boulder that held his torso aloft. I nudged the corpse onto its back and pried the statue free.
Its base was cracked but appeared otherwise undamaged. It rattled when I lifted it free, and a trap door sprung open, revealing a secret chamber.
Anemptychamber.
Were the Keeper’s secrets gone?
We needed to move, but we needed whatever had been inside the statue more.
“Cover me. The statue is empty. There has to be something here,” I called out.
Will stood guard, his pistol searching faster than his eyes. The city held its breath. There was no sign of reinforcements yet, no shouts of alarm, but we couldn’t have long before all that changed.
Crouching behind the wreck, I searched the ground around the dead man. His face was screwed in horror and pain. Blood covered his coat and shirt. My hands frisked as my eyes avoided his hollow gaze.
There was nothing in his pockets. The ground beneath him was stone and sand. There was nothing—
His hand was clenched.
I pried open his fingers to find a tiny metal canister, the kind used for photographs or microfilm.
My pulse quickened.
Was this what the Soviets wanted so desperately?
A shout carried across the water from the far side.
“Thomas,” Will hissed. “We’ve gotta move.”
I stuffed the canister into my pocket, then tucked the statue under my good arm. My hands shook, the adrenaline fading, as a cold sweat broke out.
I sucked in a deep breath.
Now we just had to get back to the safe house.
A footstep crunched behind me. I spun, pistol up, but lowered it when I recognized Visla’s narrow face. Her eyes darted from the wreck to the bodies to where Will stood guard, then landed on the statue. “You did all of this?”
“They stole what’s ours. They got what they deserved.” There was no pity in my voice. There couldn’t be, not in our line of work.
Visla glanced from Will to me. “The statue?”
I held it up, showing the hidden compartment. “It had a canister inside. Film, maybe. We can look at it back at the safe house. We need to get out of here.”
She exhaled sharply, a whispered curse in Polish, then she raised her pistol toward my head.
“Thank you for doing my work for me,” she said, her voice as cold as the day we met.
In that moment, I saw our lives, the farm, the dogs. I saw our time in Paris and London, our mission in the Netherlands and Switzerland and Germany. I saw Will, his brilliant eyes and infectious smile.
I saw it all.
And I knew it would be the last time I did.
29
Thomas
The shot echoed off the stones of the bridge.
