29. Thomas
29
Thomas
T he shot echoed off the stones of the bridge.
It sounded like battlefield artillery.
I felt it tear through me, and watched my world turn to flame.
Visla stood before me, her pistol still aimed at my head.
Her eyes widened.
Then narrowed.
A flower of crimson bloomed across her chest.
She looked down.
One hand left her gun and felt her shirt. Fingers came away coated in red. She stared back at me, her eyes a story of both confusion and recognition.
She stared for only a moment, then toppled to the ground.
Will kicked her gun away and was by my side in a flash.
“Oh, God, Thomas! You fucking idiot. Are you all right? Are you hit? Talk to me, babe! I didn’t save you from the Nazis so you could die in this fucking hellhole. Don’t you die on me, Thomas Jacobs. Don’t you fucking do it.” His hands flew over my chest and shoulders, searching for holes where bullets pierced. His words were rapid and panicked, on the verge of shattering with each syllable. Then his hands stilled, and a small boy begged, “Please, tell me you’re okay.”
“I’m okay.” My voice was hollow in my own ears. “We need to go.”
The motorcycle sputtered but started. I tried to climb on behind Will, but my arm finally gave out. There was no way I could hold on to the statue and Will, not the way my shoulder was blazing in pain.
I lowered myself onto the ground. Will gaped.
“Go. I’ll meet you back at the safe house.”
“Thomas, NO!”
“Go!” I said, stepping back from the bike. “I can’t hold on.”
“Then I’m coming with you, idiot. We’re not splitting up again, not ever.” He jumped off the bike and practically tossed it to the ground, still running.
“Lead the way,” was all I could think to say.