Page 20 of Beehive

One question spun faster than the others.What has the Russians so worked up that they’d redirect half their European theater resources to Berlin?

The Nazis had done extensive work on chemical, biological, and nuclear weaponry. Any one of those would send our teams into high alert; but following the cessation of hostilities, much of that research had either been secured or destroyed. As antagonistic as the Russia-America relationship was becoming, they had worked well with us to root out anything that might carry disastrous consequences. Besides, if anything of the sort had been discovered, our agents embedded within the Soviet and German structures would have picked up at least a whiff.

We had nothing but some drivel about artwork.

What did that even mean?

For all we knew, it was a game piece from some medieval fantasy thought up by a child, and now the world’s most powerful spy agencies were chasing their tails over a fever dream.

Logically, I knew better.

The Soviets were good.

No, they were better than good. They were the best.

Our OSS had worked wonders during the war, gearing up in record time and coordinating with all the major powers; but since before the time of Catherine the Great, the Russians spied at a level beyond even their most skilled adversaries. If they thought something was worth rallying the troops, it probably was.

Hence, we rallied, too.

So, if this painting or statue or game piece wasn’t a weapon, what was it?

A defector? Would whatever crazy name they gave the thing turn out to represent an asset’s code name?

That didn’t make sense.

We weren’t friends anymore, but we weren’t exactly enemies.

A dozen other scenarios rattled around my brain, causing my head to hurt, before a key turning heralded Will’s return.

“Honey, I’m home,” he singsonged as the door swung closed. I rose from the couch to find him standing in the doorway surrounded by several packages from local clothiers. He’d let his hair grow out over the winter, and straight brown locks danced as his head tilted to one side in a gesture I’d come to learn meant, “Look what I just did.”

“Um, babe, did you go shopping after our dead drop meetup with our handler who told us the Soviets are going bananas over something super secret that might impact the fate of the world?”

His grin was so wide I thought my heart might burst.

“If you can’t shop when the world might end, when can you? Besides, you needed new shoes, and I am finally tossing out that awful blue thing you wear around the apartment.”

“William Shaw! You are not—”

He held up a palm. “I am. Not another word.” He reached into a bag and pulled out a sweater of the deepest royal blue and held it to his chest like he was sizing it for himself. “This is your replacement. You’re welcome.”

I lost my will to jest. “That’s . . . babe, it’ssexy.”

“The sweater’s pretty nice, too, right?”

I laughed and shook my head. “I’ve been wrestling with the fate of the world, and here you go, making me laugh. This is why I love you so much, isn’t it?”

“Nope. Wrong answer.” He tossed the sweater aside, closed the gap between us, and gripped my crotch. “I’m about to show you why you love me.”

I coughed in surprise when his lips found mine, forcing him to pull back.

“Don’t give me any guff about having a secret meeting later. We don’t have any answers, only questions, and sitting here thinking won’t help. I have a much better idea of how we can prepare for our handler that definitely involves somehandlingof my own.”

His hand released its grip on my boys and inched upward. He began stroking me through my trousers. My body’s reaction was immediate. This time, when he kissed me, all thoughts of Nazis or Soviets or Stalin vanished. There was only Will, his hand, and my desire to plant my flag in his not-so-virgin territory.

“Fuck, I love you,” I breathed the moment our lips parted.

“Show, don’t tell. Isn’t that what the writers say?”

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