28. Thomas
28
Thomas
M y heart hammered as I reached for the pistol hidden at my ankle. Will sprang up, nearly knocking his bowl to the floor.
Visla hissed, “Don’t fire inside if you can help it.”
The old man moved aside as we rushed past him and up the staircase. Every step I took felt like a thunderclap in my ears. The old stairs screamed beneath our boots.
We reached the upper landing in time to catch hurried footsteps and the rattle of a window frame. I turned the knob. It was locked. Lowering my shoulder, I battered the door once, then again. On the third try, it sprung open.
Will and I burst into our room, guns ready. It was empty. The curtains fluttered as wind streamed through the now-open window.
The desk was overturned. The bed lay half on its side, as if someone had searched under the mattress. The window at the far end was shattered outward, glass hanging on like jagged teeth. I darted across the room and leaned out the window. Two figures dressed in dark clothes dropped onto the street below. One carried the statue.
“Damn it! They have the Keeper,” I snarled.
Will was already on the move, crossing the room in three strides and leaning out the window beside me. The Soviet agents—who else could it be?—were getting away.
If we hesitated, they’d be gone.
I heard a muffled shout, maybe a code word, then the roar of an engine.
They had a car waiting.
Of course they did.
I turned and raced down the stairs and out the front door, my gun ready in my right hand.
Will followed.
Behind us, from inside the safe house, I heard the old man curse.
Then a shot rang out—from inside the house.
“Don’t stop,” I called back to Will. “Follow the statue!”
The wind blew hot against my face.
The moment my boots hit the street, a gunshot rang out, echoing like a thunderclap on a stormy night. Chips of brick and mortar shattered nearby.
The Russians had at least one man covering their escape from atop a house across the street. I ducked and stumbled behind a tall shrub. It wouldn’t stop bullets, but it at least obscured their target.
I raised my pistol and fired twice where I’d seen the muzzle flash. Sharp, savage cracks rang my ears. At that angle, I doubted I hit anything.
Peering around the shrub, I watched as one of the fleeing men pointed down the street.
Their plan was clear: Get the statue and vanish.
If they succeeded, all our work would be undone. We had come too far and sacrificed too much. We had to get the Keeper back.
Another bullet whizzed by.
I looked back to where Will crouched beside me. It had missed him, too.
“On three,” I said.
I raised one finger, then two, then three.
We darted into the open, weaving through rubble. Will fired up at the sniper, forcing him to duck for cover.
We ran down an alley that opened onto a narrow lane surrounded by half-collapsed buildings that had once been homes. The Soviets were ahead, making for a larger thoroughfare on the left where a black GAZ-M1 waited.
The GAZ wasn’t the fastest car on the road, but it would get them clear of us.
One of the men wore a brown coat, the other a black one, and the black-coated man carried the statue cradled in one arm like a prized jewel.
There was no time for caution. Our boots slapped wet pavement.
A cough of automatic fire rattled from somewhere ahead. The Soviets were covering their retreat.
I felt a bullet hiss more than saw it as it slammed into my shoulder. I staggered back a step. “Fuck!”
“Thomas!” Will cried out, tossing our covers aside.
“I’m all right,” I said, waving him forward. “Go! Keep after them!”
My shoulder throbbed. I pressed a hand to staunch any bleeding and barreled forward. I doubted the bullet had hit anything vital but didn’t have the time to make sure.
It really didn’t matter. The statue was all that did.
Dust choked my throat as I ducked behind a building and tried to peer around the corner.
The street beyond was wider.
The GAZ billowed smoke from its tailpipe as the men we chased shouted in Russian and piled into the back seat.
The shooter, a stocky man with a scowl and a PPSh-41 submachine gun, stood half out of the passenger door, his barrel pointed in our direction, ready to keep us pinned down.
We had only seconds to act.
Will gestured: I’ll go right. You go left.
I nodded.
On his count—three taps of my shoulder—we bolted from our hiding place.
My pistol barked.
I watched my bullet smash into the GAZ’s front fender, spraying sparks.
Will’s shot was more accurate, catching the gunner in the shoulder and spinning him around. He screamed and clambered fully inside the car as the driver floored it. The GAZ lurched, a spray of gravel and broken glass fanning out behind its wheels.
I sprinted behind, my lungs burning, my arm throbbing.
They were heading west along the rubble-strewn street.
Will kept pace, his coat flapping.
We would never catch them on foot, not if they got any momentum.
My mind raced—there had to be a way.
A side street.
An alley.
A useless shortcut.
I looked around, but all I saw were gutted structures and debris. The city was still a war zone. Then I spotted a motorcycle leaned against a collapsed storefront. It looked abandoned, its tires half flat, but if it still ran . . .
“The bike!” I shouted at Will. He turned and followed my pointing finger. “You have to drive.”
I vaulted over a chunk of masonry and nearly slipped on loose gravel but caught myself on the bike’s padded seat. Will kicked the stand free and tested the ignition. It coughed to life with a roar that sent pigeons scattering into the sky.
I jumped onto the back.
The moment Will twisted the throttle, the motorcycle lurched forward, bounding over broken pavement. The engine’s vibrations rattled my bones. They felt far worse on my shoulder.
Wind slapped at my face, and I gripped Will’s waist with my wounded arm, holding my pistol at the ready in my other hand.
The Soviets swerved, dodging piles of brick strewn about the road.
Another shot flew past us, digging into the dust.
I pressed myself as flat as I could behind Will, trying to present a smaller target.
The car’s taillights flickered as the driver hit the brakes, then accelerated again. He was trying to shake us off.
Will juiced the bike, and we gained speed. Their car was faster, but we were far more nimble. For a heartbeat, I thought we might lose them at the next intersection, but then we emerged onto a broader avenue—what had been one of Berlin’s major arteries before the bombs fell.
“Hold on!” Will shouted.
I barely heard him above the roar of the engine and whipping wind.
The GAZ swung violently right, its tires squealing.
Will cranked the handlebar, and we followed, almost kissing the pavement as we leaned into the turn.
The city blurred.
I caught glimpses of hollow windows and scorched doorframes, twisted iron fences, and abandoned tram tracks. The Soviets led us deeper into their territory, closer to their checkpoints. If they got that far, we’d never get away alive.
Shots fired again—this time from inside the car.
The back window shattered outward.
I flinched, and Will jerked the bike sideways.
A bullet screamed past my ear, so close I felt the heat of its passage.
The gap between us narrowed.
Another turn, then another.
The streets were a labyrinth.
My eyes watered from the wind and the smoke.
I squeezed off a shot—just one—aiming low. The bullet pinged off the rear bumper. It didn’t hit anything vital, but it rattled them.
The car swerved again.
Will cursed.
There was a bridge up ahead, over a canal choked with debris and possibly mines. I remembered it from our scouting reports. The railing on the left side had collapsed into the canal below, and makeshift planks had been laid down to strengthen the deck. The whole thing looked like it might give way at any moment.
“They’re heading toward the bridge!” Will yelled.
The car’s driver seemed confident. Too confident.
“Now!” I shouted to Will, though I didn’t know what I expected him to do.
A surge of adrenaline cleared my vision.
Time stretched.
I saw every chip of stone, every swirl of dust.
The GAZ reached the bridge, hit a section of uneven plank, and lurched violently.
Its back wheels skidded.
Sparks flew as metal scraped over rough timber.
The driver fought for control. For a second, it looked like he might recover, but then the front tire caught on a protruding rod of rebar. The car’s front end jerked left, and the vehicle slammed into the broken railing.
My heart stopped.
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.
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.
An empty chamber.
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.