Page 86 of Shadowfox
“You’ve seen him,” Will pressed. “The way he spoke about her, the way he looked at us when he mentioned her. He didn’t run. He was trying to protect her. If we walk away now—”
“I’m not saying we walk away.” My voice was lower, rougher. “But there’ll be hell to pay if we don’t execute the order.”
“We’ve lived through hell before.”
The room went still, save for the violins and running water.
Will pressed his body against me, wrapping his arms around me and whispering in my ear. “You and I both know what this is. All they care about is that machine.”
What could I say? He was right. Our government—the Western governments who knew of the threat posed by Farkas and his invention—were terrified by the power it represented. They would move heaven and earth to stop the Soviets from wielding it. We were merely the instruments of their collective judgements, the tip of their spear.
They didn’t care about the people involved, only the objective.
So, why should we?
Why should we care about a scientist who’d invented a terrible machine? Why should we put our lives at risk to save his daughter when he’d been willing to risk the entire world order with his mad calculations?
But . . . had that been his intention?
Farkas never planned to help the Soviets achieve power. Based on our brief interaction and everything we knew of the man, he had never intended to help the Soviets achieve anything. He was a genius who loved to create—and the Reds were the first to discover his workshop. It was that simple.
But did that knowledge change anything?
Did it justify ignoring explicit orders and putting the lives of our team at risk?
And for what?
“I’m not asking you to choose between them and me,” Will whispered. “But I am asking you to choose between doing what’s right and what’s easy.”
I looked at him. Really looked at the man who had walked through fire with me, at the man who had killed, bled, and held me in the quietest moments when the guilt became too much. And I knew—even before I spoke life into the words—that there was no world in which I could tell him no.
“Fine. We’ll try to find the girl. I have no idea how, but we’ll try,” I said. “But if we can’t find her in a few days or it gets too hot, we cut our losses and execute Plan B.”
Will exhaled, like he’d been holding the breath of the world. The loose hug I’d enjoyed while we spoke grew tighter, and I could feel his breath warming my neck as he nuzzled into his favorite spot just below my chin.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” I swallowed the lump rising in my throat. “This could get us all killed.”
I felt his lips curl against my skin as fingers clutching my back and sides dug in a little deeper.
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Despite everything, I chuckled. Will was infuriating—and infectious—and I loved him more than life itself.
He pulled back and ran a hand through his hair, failing to subdue it into any sense of order. I stepped to the sink and retrieved a matchbook from my pocket. I then folded the message once, lit it with the tip of a match, and watched it curl and blacken, then drift apart in the flowing water of the sink.
33
Sparrow
Thesidewalkoutsideourhotel was slick with frost, glittering beneath weak sunlight as though it was dressed for a celebration that never arrived. A tram clattered blocks away, its bell echoing sharp and distant through the chill. I stood beside Egret under the awning, trying not to let my breath shake when it clouded the air between us.
He looked good this morning, clean-shaven, his tie knotted just crooked enough to be charming. He looked like a man who belonged in a government sedan, playing at diplomacy. I’d seen him in uniforms, in blood-soaked field gear, with cigarette ash smudging his cheek, but somehow this—this false civility—made him seem vulnerable.
It was a good look for him.
He spoke about his day’s agenda, but neither of us cared about the script anymore. “We’ll be back before four,” he murmured. “Maybe earlier if the engineer talks too much. You know how they love their transformers.”
