Beehive (Of Shadows & Secrets #4)

31. Will

31

Will

I felt a hollow ache in my chest before my eyes drifted open, and I remembered where we were. A single window let in a wedge of daylight. My hand reached out beside me and felt nothing but empty floor.

Thomas.

The thought of him snapped me fully awake.

My attention snapped to the figure lying on a makeshift cot. I’d assembled it from a door I’d found torn off its hinges and a moth-eaten blanket. He looked so pale, his skin chalky. His hair was stuck to his forehead, damp with sweat. His breathing was shallow.

My mind raced, replaying every gunshot, every step, every bend and turn of the road. I stared into Visla’s eyes, our guide—our handler. Her betrayal bit with the sharpness of fangs.

Who were we supposed to trust?

I needed to focus on what I could fix.

Thomas was alive.

He’d taken a bullet in the shoulder, but his wound didn’t appear life-threatening. Blood loss and infection could change that and had to be addressed. I’d bandaged him as best I could, using strips of my shirt and a rag I’d boiled in water using a kettle I found. Finding a safe place to hide had seemed impossible, but I’d done it. We sheltered in an apartment building at the edge of a half-collapsed street. The outer doors were wrenched from their frames by some blast last year, or the year before. Berlin’s timeline of destruction felt endless.

Despite the climb that was more difficult with Thomas’s dead weight, I picked a room on the top floor that still had four walls and one window. It wasn’t ideal—nothing here was—but at least it wasn’t compromised, not so far as I could tell.

We only had the supplies we carried.

No proper medical kit. Just a handful of pain pills and some antiseptic I’d found in the safe house. The label on the antiseptic was torn away, but it smelled sharp and clean, so I used it to rinse his wound.

Thomas hadn’t stirred, just moaned softly, his head rolling to one side, his body feverish.

“Come on, Thomas,” I whispered, sitting beside him and stroking his head. “You need to wake up.”

I’d said it a hundred times since we hunkered down.

Maybe he heard me in his dreams. Maybe he didn’t.

Either way, I needed to speak the words.

Taking his hand in mine, I felt the roughness of his knuckles, the warmth of his skin. The touch was a tether to him, to us . We’d been through so much. First the war itself, now this messy aftermath, playing spy games in a city of ruin. I pressed his palm to my cheek, closing my eyes for a moment, ignoring the sting in them.

I couldn’t afford tears.

I needed to stay clearheaded.

For him.

Without him, I was a man adrift.

That admission gnawed at me.

Without him, I’d have no one to talk to, no partner to watch my back, no friend to share my burdens. The statue we’d risked our lives for lay wrapped in a bit of cloth in the corner, its secret canister tucked into my jacket pocket.

Without Thomas, none of that mattered.

I could run to the Americans, hand them the canister and the statue, but who would I share that victory with? A faceless spook in a back room who’d give a curt nod before sending me on the next mission?

No.

Thomas was everything that made this fight worth surviving.

I checked his bandage again.

I had no idea if the bullet was still inside him. That was the sickening truth. I’d probed gently last night—lighting a bit of newspaper and an old candle stub, just enough light to see into the wound. I couldn’t find the slug. Maybe it had passed clean through. The entry wound was ragged, and there was a place on the back of his shoulder that looked like an exit hole, but I wasn’t sure. I cleaned and bound both sides. That was all I could do.

If infection set in . . .

I forced that thought away.

I wouldn’t let it happen. It couldn’t happen.

We had to move soon, to find help. But where? How?

The Americans weren’t expecting us—we’d lost that window when we had to chase those Soviets and retrieve the statue. Now we were stranded in their sector with the whole Russian state searching for us.

I sighed and brushed a lock of hair off Thomas’s forehead. His eyelids fluttered. A tiny movement, but I caught it.

My heart leaped.

I leaned close, lowering my voice to a soft, urgent whisper. “Thomas? Thomas, can you hear me?”

No response.

He lay there, his chest rising and falling, his breathing too shallow for my liking.

I counted: one, two, three seconds.

Then his eyelids flicked again. His throat worked, as if he were trying to swallow.

I held my breath.

My hands hovered over him, not quite touching him, afraid to break whatever fragile barrier kept him from waking.

The silence of the ruined apartment pressed down. I thought I heard distant voices somewhere, maybe down in the street, but it could have been my imagination. I prayed no patrols were closing in.

Then, I heard it, a quiet sound, a sigh or half a moan.

Thomas’s face twisted, his lips parted, and his eyes finally fluttered open. They were clouded at first, unfocused. They didn’t see so much as sought.

I didn’t dare move. I let him orient himself, to find something to latch onto. I let him see me first, my face, my eyes. I tried to look steady, reassuring, confident—even though my heart was thrumming like a hummingbird’s wings.

“Will?” His voice was a rasp, barely audible.

“I’m here,” I said. It came out a bit choked. I swallowed hard, gripped his hand, and held it to my lips. “Babe, I’m right here.”

He blinked, frowning slightly.

I gave him a moment.

God, he looked so weak. Thomas, who had always been the one pushing us forward, the one who could talk or fight his way out of anything. Thomas, who had kept me sane when shells fell like steel rain.

Now, he lay flat on his back with a wound that could kill him if I didn’t get him out.

But he was awake.

Awake meant life.

Awake meant hope.

“What . . .” he began, but broke into a quiet cough.

I reached for the tin cup on the floor beside me, the one I’d managed to fill with water from a leaky pipe in the kitchen. The water wasn’t exactly clean, but I’d boiled it with what little fire I could make. It had to do.

“Easy,” I said, sliding one arm under his head to lift him slightly. He winced and hissed as I brought the cup to his lips. “Just a sip.”

He took a little, coughed again, and then managed a second sip.

I eased him back down, trying not to jostle his injured shoulder. He was breathing heavier now, but at least he was breathing. When I set the cup aside, I caught his gaze. His eyes had cleared somewhat, and they locked onto me, searching my face for clues.

“Where . . . where are we?”

“An old apartment,” I said. “We had to leave the safe house. It wasn’t safe.”

I swallowed again, throat tight.

Thomas’s eyes widened, then he closed them, grimacing. I knew what that look meant. Thomas opened his eyes again and said nothing for a moment, just breathed in shallow, uneven draughts.

I laid my hand on his good shoulder. “Visla’s gone,” I said. “She betrayed us, maybe even arranged the ambush. I’m not sure. She was about to shoot you when . . .”

Words fled.

Even trying to say it out loud made my stomach twist.

We trusted her. We relied on her intel. Now all of that was rubble, like so much else in this damned city.

Thomas’s expression tightened.

He didn’t need to ask for details. We both knew this was the grim reality of our trade: Trust could be fickle, loyalty sold cheaply. After a moment, he nodded, as if accepting it. His brow creased with pain.

I reached for his hand again, squeezing gently.

“Don’t talk too much,” I said. “You need to rest.”

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath the pale skin of his throat. “The statue . . .” he whispered so softly I could barely hear him.

“It’s here,” I said. “And the canister. Well, safe as it can be.”

The canister’s presence felt like a secret talisman. It was what we’d come for, after all, the key to something bigger than either of us. Maybe it would help further secure this maddening half peace, or maybe it would just spark new conflicts. That wasn’t our call. We were simply messengers, carriers of secrets.

Thomas nodded slowly. I saw his relief. I felt it.

He must have worried we’d lost the film, that his sacrifice had been in vain.

Then he licked his lips and looked at me again. The way he looked at me, his eyes so filled with love, made my heart twist. I realized in that moment how terrified I’d been that he wouldn’t wake up, that I’d have to leave him behind, or worse, watch him leave me.

My throat constricted.

I wanted to say something profound, something that would reassure him, but all I managed was his name, soft and trembling on my tongue.

“Thomas . . .”

He must have seen the fear in my eyes—and the relief.

Shifting his good hand, he touched my forearm. His voice was barely a whisper but held a hint of the old, stubborn strength I’d come to rely on. “It takes a lot more than a bad shot to kill me.”

Then his lips twisted into a lopsided smirk.

I laughed, a short, breathy sound that held as much relief as humor.

“Thank God,” I said, pressing my hand over his. “I was so worried.”

My voice cracked again at the end. I turned away, pretending to study the window, to make sure no one was out there. In truth, I needed a moment to gather myself. When I turned back, Thomas’s gaze hadn’t wavered. He knew me too well. He knew how I got when fear gnawed at my belly. He’d seen me flinch at nighttime artillery, back when we were still training for missions to come. Now, it was just the two of us, and he saw straight through my thin armor.

“Will,” he said softly. “It’s all right. I’m all right.”

It wasn’t, of course. He wasn’t. Nothing was all right. But I understood what he meant: He was alive, conscious, and for now, that would have to be enough.

I forced a shaky smile and nodded.

“You’re right,” I said, lying for his sake. “We’ll get through this.”

He closed his eyes again, exhausted or in pain. Probably both.

I checked his bandage again, the four hundredth time that day. It was still tight, but I worried about infection. I’d have to find something else to clean it with soon or at least get some antibiotics. Berlin was picked clean, but maybe there was a hidden cache somewhere. Even a Soviet field medic’s kit would do, if I could get my hands on one without getting shot in the process.

Outside, a distant rumble rattled my confidence further.

A truck passing on the next street over, perhaps. The Soviets moved through the city like wraiths. If they found us with the statue and canister . . . I shuddered to think of what would happen.

Thomas needed rest, but we couldn’t risk staying in one place too long, especially not with all the secrets Visla shared with our pursuers. I wondered how much they knew. Probably everything.

The gravity of her betrayal finally sank in.

None of our safe houses were safe.

No drop site could be trusted.

None of our contacts were viable.

Our handler had turned on us. In our line of work, there could be no greater treachery. Until we contacted Manakin or someone we personally knew, no one was worthy of trust.

“I need to find a way out of the sector,” I said quietly, almost to myself. Thomas opened his eyes again, listening. “We have to get you to a doctor, and we need to get the film to the OSS. We’re running out of time. The longer we’re here, the greater the chance Uncle Joe’s boys will find us.” I looked down at him and tried to put resolve into my voice. “I’ll get you out. I swear it.”

He searched my face, and something in his gaze softened. “Don’t . . . do anything stupid.”

I huffed a laugh. “My dear, doing stupid is your specialty, not mine.”

He managed a ghost of a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was better than nothing.

I moved to the pile of items I’d gathered and took a quick inventory.

Along with the statue and canister, I had a half loaf of bread, a half-eaten tin of something like beans, and a flask of water. There was also Thomas’s gun and the gun I’d taken off one of the Soviets, along with my own pistol. Ammunition was short. I had maybe a dozen rounds total. Not enough for a firefight. I’d have to be careful. Pick my battles. Maybe find some help—if there was anyone left in this sector who wouldn’t turn on us.

Thomas watched me.

I felt his gaze even when I wasn’t looking at him. I tried to keep my motions calm and deliberate, not wanting to show the panic I felt knotting my gut. The last thing I wanted was for him to see how close I was to snapping. He needed to rest and heal. My job was to make that possible.

“You were unconscious for a long time,” I said, trying to fill the silence with gentle words. “I wasn’t sure you’d wake up. I tried talking to you, telling you stories, anything to keep you anchored. I’m sure most of it was nonsense.” I smiled weakly. “I’m just glad you’re back.”

Thomas’s throat bobbed again. He closed his eyes, taking slow breaths.

“Hurts,” he said after a beat, his voice ragged.

“I know.” I bent close, brushing his hair back again, feeling how hot his forehead was. My lips were cool against his skin. “I’ll find something to help with the pain.”

“I’ll be all right,” he croaked. “You do what you have to.”

“I’m not leaving you,” I said, more sharply than I intended. His eyes snapped open, so I softened my tone. “Not yet, at least. Let’s wait a while, see if we can move you. Maybe we can find a doctor without splitting up.”

Thomas attempted a nod. Every movement looked like agony.

My fists clenched helplessly at my sides. I wanted to take his pain away, to shoulder it myself if I could, but life didn’t work that way. All I could do was be here, keep him safe, keep him warm, and hope my decisions led us somewhere better.

We fell into a heavy silence.

I heard dripping water somewhere in the building, probably from a broken pipe.

The wind moaned against the broken window frame.

Dust motes spun in the meager light.

Thomas’s breathing was slow but steady. I sat beside him, one hand still on his arm, the other resting on my knee. This was a waiting game now—waiting for him to gather enough strength to move, waiting for my mind to come up with a plan to slip through Soviet patrols, waiting for nightfall perhaps, when we might move under the cover of darkness.

“Will,” Thomas muttered, pulling me from my anxious thoughts.

“Yeah?” I leaned in.

His voice was weak, but his eyes held a gentle intensity. “You saved my life.”

I chuckled awkwardly. I wasn’t the one who saved people. That was Thomas. His praise felt like an ill-fitting coat.

“Okay,” was all I could manage in reply.

His gaze sharpened. “Seriously, she would’ve killed me. I remember now. I remember it all. You saved me again . That’s the second time.”

I hadn’t thought of it that way. I wasn’t keeping score; but I supposed he was right. When he’d been captured by the Nazis, I’d insisted on being part of the team to rescue him. No force on Earth could’ve stopped me. Earlier, when Visla was pulling her trigger, I acted on instinct, on the basest of needs to keep my family alive. I didn’t do it for praise or to be known as anyone’s savior. I did it because Thomas was everything to me.

I couldn’t let him die. Not then. Not now. Not ever.

“I love you,” he said, then closed his eyes. “You’re my anchor, Will.”

My throat tightened again. Hearing that, after everything, hit me hard. I wanted to pull him close, to hold him until the fear ebbed away, but I couldn’t risk moving him too much, not yet. So I just bent forward, pressed my forehead to his good shoulder, closed my eyes, and tried to stop the tears from falling.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I murmured. “I promise.”