Chapter 7 Gideon
For two days, I tried to scrub her out of my head.
I flew double shifts. I ate standing. I slept in pieces.
I walked the flight line until my boots hurt.
I stayed away from Die Ecke, though every night my eyes flicked toward that direction, like some part of me expected her to step out of the rubble and look at me with those tired, fierce eyes.
None of it helped.
Every time I blinked, I saw her pinned in that alley, breath shaking, eyes wide with terror. Every time I inhaled, I smelled her hair under my jacket. Every time I steadied my pulse, I heard her whisper: You came just in time.
And every time I thought about those Russians, the dragon inside me bared its teeth. Let me out, it murmured. Let me burn them.
I slammed the door on that thought. Couldn't afford it. Not in this city. Not in this uniform. But I couldn't shake her.
I told myself it was because she was vulnerable. Because she was living in a ruin held together by despair and rust. Because this city would swallow her whole if someone didn't look out for her.
But that wasn't the truth.
The truth was that Inga had gotten under my skin, deeper than shrapnel, deeper than guilt. And now I was carrying her with me into the sky.
Which made me dangerous.
The weather wasn't helping. The northern corridor was choked with clouds thick as wool, and the sun had already sunk behind the gray horizon by the time Reynolds and I taxied out for our last run of the day.
"Feels like a cursed night," he grumbled beside me.
Berlin felt like that every night.
We climbed into the soup, instruments glowing faintly in the gloom. The engines were steady; the old girl was humming with the regular heartbeat of a machine that refused to die.
The city unfolded beneath us in smudges of shadow and broken geometry, a wounded thing curled on itself.
The Tiergarten was black and skeletal. The Reichstag was a toothless skull.
And the Soviet sector was a darkness even deeper than night.
I breathed in through my nose. The dragon stirred, restless.
I tried to distract myself, but that didn't work. Inga rose up again, soft as a bruise.
"Easy Two-Four, maintain heading," the tower crackled.
"Roger," I said.
We leveled out at 4,500 feet, the air, cold and thin, humming against the fuselage.
Reynolds flicked a switch, frowned at the radio hiss. "Interference again."
"Soviets?" I muttered.
He shrugged. "Either that or ghosts."
Knowing this city, I wasn't ruling out either.
Five minutes later, I felt it, a shift in the air pressure, a flutter in the yoke.
And then: a shadow sliced across the clouds like a shark fin.
A Soviet Yak.
Flying too low. Too close.
Too damn fast.
Reynolds cursed. "Jesus—he's right on top of us!"
The Yak dove across our bow, a deliberate buzz so close I could count the rivets on its belly. Turbulence slashed across us like a whip. The Dakota bucked hard. Cargo straps groaned in the back. My pulse detonated.
"He's not supposed to be in the corridor," Reynolds hissed.
"No," I growled, gripping the wheel tighter. "He's not."
The Yak circled us once, twice, like a wolf sniffing prey. Then it peeled off toward the Soviet sector, and that was when I saw the flash. A tiny spark on a rooftop ruin. A muzzle flare.
CRACK.
Something slammed into the starboard fuselage, metal screaming as the bullet tore through skin and frame. The plane jerked violently.
"Christ!" Reynolds shouted. "We're hit!"
My dragon roared awake so violently, I nearly blacked out. Heat surged under my skin. My vision sharpened unnaturally, edges turning gold.
Every instinct screamed at me to turn, dive, obliterate the threat.
Burn them, the dragon snarled. Let me burn them.
I pulled back hard on the yoke, forcing breath through my teeth. "Hold steady!"
Another flash.
Another shot.
Another metallic shriek as a bullet punched the underside near the cargo bay.
Reynolds gaped at me. "They're firing on us, Griff! They're SHOOTING at us!"
"Don't say it on the radio," I barked. "Do not—say—anything."
"They're trying to kill us!"
"If we broadcast this," I ground out, "the Soviets get exactly what they want."
Reynolds paled. "You think they're trying to start something?"
I thought of Inga. Of the night she almost died. Of the Russian smirk as he grabbed her wrist. Of how this city was a fuse waiting for a spark.
"Yes," I said.
We limped toward Tempelhof, the Dakota shuddering with every mile. The right wing hummed with damage. One of the gauges trembled in the red.
"We're losing altitude," Reynolds informed me.
"Not if I can help it."
I coaxed her, begged her, prayed to gods I didn't believe in.
The engines rattled but held. The runway lights finally appeared through the haze, thin, flickering, desperate.
With a shudder, we hit the tarmac hard, bouncing once, twice, then grinding to a stop with a squeal that ripped through my spine.
Silence.
Then Reynolds exhaled shakily. "We're alive."
"Barely."
The ground crew swarmed the plane, eyes going wide as dinner plates when they saw the bullet holes. Two MPs hauled us toward Operations before anyone could even ask a question.
Colonel Jamison's face was the color of an imminent heart attack.
"You two," he said in a low, deadly voice, "will not mention this."
Reynolds blinked at him. "Sir—they SHOT at—"
"No," Jamison snapped. "They did not."
"Sir—"
"They. Did. Not."
He slammed a folder shut so hard, dust jumped.
He pointed between us, jabbing the air as if stabbing invisible ghosts.
"Do you have any idea how many incidents I've buried in the last month?
The French nearly exchanged fire with Soviet MPs last week.
A British truck was rammed near the Tiergarten.
A French corporal ended up in the hospital after a misunderstanding at a checkpoint. And now this."
Reynolds swallowed. "Sir, with respect—"
Jamison sliced the air with his hand. "Respect? Respect went out the window the moment Stalin shut down the roads. We're dancing on a razor's edge. One spark—one goddamn bullet acknowledged—and this whole city goes up like kindling."
His voice dropped lower, darker. "And trust me, gentlemen… Washington will gladly sacrifice two American pilots rather than answer that bullet with another."
A chill ran down my spine that had nothing to do with the dragon. Jamison leaned closer, eyes sharp as broken glass. "You saw nothing. You heard nothing. Your plane hit debris. Do. You. Understand?"
The dragon clawed under my ribs. The injustice burned.
But I understood. The last thing anybody needed was the beginning of WWIII.
Two dead American pilots would be a low price to pay to stop it from happening.
We were flying in food and other essentials this city needed to keep it alive.
The Russians wanted it. The Russians were itching to start WWIII.
I stood straighter, "Yes, sir."
Jamison exhaled. "Good. Now get out of my sight."
Outside, the night was damp and metallic. Another plane roared overhead, unbothered, unaware. A baby cried near the fence, a thin sound lost in the engines.
And all I could think was: If the Soviets were willing to shoot at me in the sky over a city still bleeding from the last war, what would they do to someone like her?
The dragon whispered: Find her. Make sure she's safe.
I didn't listen.
Not yet.
But oh, God, I wanted to.