Beehive (Of Shadows & Secrets #4)

23. Thomas

23

Thomas

T he museum loomed ahead, its facade illuminated by a pair of floodlights casting long shadows across the cobbled street. The Soviets had done their best to renew its appearance and keep the place functional, but the building carried the scars of war. Cracks spider-webbed across a few of its columns, and the faint outline of shrapnel damage marred once-pristine stone.

It looked tired, like the city itself, but it wasn’t dead yet.

Will and I crouched in the shadow of a boarded-up storefront across the street, our breaths shallow, hearts racing. Despite the night air clinging to my skin, my mind was sharp, tuned to every detail.

Two guards lingered near the main entrance, their rifles slung lazily over their shoulders. One slouched against the wall. The other paced in a slow, methodical rhythm, his boots scraping against the pavement.

“Shift change soon?” I whispered, barely moving my lips.

Will checked his watch and shook his head. “Not for another hour. This is our window.”

Our window, the time when the current guards would be most exhausted and least likely to react quickly. It wasn’t much of an edge, but we needed every advantage we could find. The guards might have looked bored, but they were still armed, still alert enough to make this more than dangerous. Still, the window helped.

Will adjusted the satchel slung across his chest. His face was a mask. I envied that about him—how he looked like this was just another day, while I felt like my pulse might give us away. I was supposed to be the Navy man, the one who’d trained for battle and could smile in the face of adversity; yet here he was, composed and ready to take on the world, while I fidgeted with my fingers and struggled to steady my breathing.

“You ready?” he asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” I replied.

I gave a single nod and moved, slipping from the shadows and darting across the street. He followed. Busy with their cigarettes and pacing, the guards didn’t notice us.

We made it to the side of the museum and pressed our backs flat against its stone.

The rear entrance was exactly where Visla’s map said it would be. It was a nondescript, rusted metal door partially obscured by dangling, overgrown ivy. Thankfully, the Soviet security apparatus didn’t seem to think anyone cared about the place enough to actually break in. No guards stood—or smoked—anywhere in sight.

I scanned above the door, across the back wall, and up the corners of the building, searching for cameras.

There was nothing but cold, pockmarked stone.

Will pulled a key from his pocket, its jagged edges glinting faintly in the moonlight, and slipped it into the lock. The mechanism turned with a soft, barely audible click .

We slipped inside, and closed the door carefully behind us. This time, its click echoed so loudly I worried those working in the Kremlin might’ve heard it. I raised a closed fist. We froze and waited for the Soviet cavalry.

Nothing stirred.

The service passage we entered was narrow and dark, lit only by the faint glow of a single shaded bulb swinging from the ceiling. Will pulled a flashlight from his satchel, but I shook my head. We had enough light to avoid making noise. There was no need to call attention to our passing by waving a torch around. He nodded but kept it ready.

I motioned for us to proceed, leading the way down the corridor.

The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional creak of the floor beneath our feet. Every step felt too loud, every movement a calamity. I kept my ears tuned, listening for anything out of place—the shuffle of boots, the murmur of voices, the rattle of a rifle being shifted.

The service hallway dumped us into the main gallery. The grand hall was darker than I expected, its shadows deep and heavy. Faint light from the street that streamed through the ornate gallery’s tall windows barely penetrated the gloom, leaving only the dim glow of emergency lights to illuminate outlines of paintings and sculptures, casting them in eerie hues of crimson and black.

The space was enormous in daylight. In the stillness of night, it felt cavernous.

Every sound was amplified, every breath a potential giveaway.

We followed the path we’d taken during the party, arriving at the antechamber in which the statue held court.

The space was blacker than pitch.

No emergency lights led to escape routes. No bulbs dangled from the ceiling. There wasn’t even enough light in the room to cast shadows, which was somehow more unnerving than the specters of the darkness we’d passed on the way inside.

We waited a moment to allow our eyes to adjust.

I heard voices, distant and faded, masked by walls and halls. Whether they belonged to guards or workers, there was no way to tell. It didn’t really matter. Either would spell disaster.

The darkness refused to yield.

Reluctantly, I tapped Will’s wrist, hoping he’d understand to switch on his flashlight.

A weak beam of dull yellow bloomed a heartbeat later.

The statue stood only a few yards away, directly in front of us.

“The Keeper of Wisdom,” the placard read. The rabbi sat beneath glass, his back hunched as he poured himself into his reading. How was it possible for the man to appear more wise, more aware? I knew this was just a carving, but in the bent man’s gaze, I saw the troubled history of a people. There was power in that gaze—power and empathy and wisdom. How was all of that possible in a block of wood?

In the silence of the gallery, it felt even more significant.

More important.

More dangerous .

Will moved toward the case, the beam of light bouncing slightly with his strides. I hung back, my attention shifting between Will and the entrance. The voices drifted through the building. They were far enough away, but their presence made my skin crawl.

We had so little time.

Will set his satchel on the floor and retrieved a small tool—a suction device—and pressed it into the top of the glass. It lifted cleanly, without a sound. Slowly, he supported the bottom and lowered it to the ground.

That’s one way to do it , I thought.

His smirk in the darkness made me wonder if he had read my mind.

His fingers brushed the smooth wood of the statue, a gentle caress. It was an oddly tender moment, despite the impending doom of Soviets with rifles who could burst in at any moment. Will wasn’t Jewish. His friendship with Arty was as close as he came to membership in a tribe. Still, the reverence with which he handled the rabbi spoke of a deep respect, a love even, for the faith of his closest friend.

For a moment, the room held its breath, the weight of what we were doing settling heavily around us. And then—

Clatter.

The sound of a metal object hitting the floor echoed through the gallery, sharp and startling.

Will’s eyes flew wide.

I froze.

My heart leaped into my throat.

“What was that?” he mouthed.

I shook my head, holding up my hands as if to say, “Not me.”

The sound came again, closer this time.

Footsteps joined the clatter, deliberate and measured, as they moved through the main gallery headed in our direction.

“Guards,” Will mouthed before slipping the statue into his satchel. We abandoned the glass case, leaving it on the floor where it lay.

My eyes darted about the room.

There was nowhere to hide.

There were no displays to duck behind nor door to exit without discovery.

We were trapped with only one way out.

Will motioned to the far side, where darkness appeared strongest, and we pressed ourselves against the wall. A hint of light would pierce our veil, but we used what we had.

My blood ran cold.

The footsteps grew louder, accompanied by the murmur of voices. Two, from the sound of it. Beams of light, far stronger than the pitiful one we’d used a moment before, swept about, slicing through the darkness like knives.

I held my breath.

My body tensed.

Every muscle screamed to move, to run, but we stayed still.

We had to.

One of the guards muttered something in Russian, his voice low but sounding annoyed. The other responded with a grunt.

One man flicked off his torch, and a beam extinguished. The other, making one last pass over the room, passed over the empty pedestal, as though nothing was amiss, then snapped back to it, illuminating the empty glass case.

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.

Will’s shadow caught my eye. He nodded toward the exit.

The guard stopped, his flashlight swinging back.

“Привал!” (Halt!) he shouted, his voice sharp.

The guard raised his rifle.

More shouts echoed against crates.

We were out of time.