Page 37 of Beehive

Damn it.

I watched and waited.

Alarms didn’t sound around the city, but they may as well have.

I was sure telephones were ringing across the sector.

As casually as any local, I strode from the back of the museum to the back of a series of high-end shops that neighbored the art center. Most of the shops were shells of their former selves, barely able to reopen, as many ceilings and walls were badly damaged. Still, rubble was cover, too, and I intended to use everything I could find.

Two blocks flew by.

My heart pounded against my rib cage, a rhythmic warning of the dangerous net closing in.

Heavy clouds had opened since I’d entered the museum, and I was getting soaked.

It was impossible to keep my steps quiet, as my boots squished loudly despite my best efforts at stepping around the largest puddles.

The downpour redoubled as I crossed a main street and entered another narrow alley. Thunder clapped in the distance, an angry flash and boom filling my mind with memories best left behind.

My hand slipped inside my coat, brushing against the cold steel of my Luger. It was my last resort—a weapon to buy time, not survival. I could never outgun the Soviets, not when Stalin had sent every last one of them to hunt me down.

My real insurance was back in the museum, hidden within that damn statue.

Shouts erupted behind me, sharp and guttural.

I broke into a sprint.

Adrenaline surged as I barreled through the twisting labyrinth of Berlin’s backstreets, my breath coming in sharp, icy bursts.

The sound of the Soviets’ boots slapping against the pavement was muted by intermittent thunder and sheets of biting rain. I heard their voices in the distance but didn’t bother trying to decipher their words.

My path veered toward the Spree River. The narrow streets widened slightly, but that only left me more exposed. A tram clattered ahead, its passengers oblivious to the deadly pursuit playing out just meters away. I darted across the street, narrowly avoiding a cyclist who cursed at me in German and gestured wildly.

He was as soaked and miserable as I was.

I didn’t stop to apologize.

A black jeep roared into view again, its engine growling like a wolf closing in on its prey. I surged forward, my lungs screaming in louder protest than even my legs.

The rain blurred my vision.

I was so winded.

My legs ached.

There was no way I could keep going at this pace, so I found a stair that descended to a subterranean apartment and huddled beneath its awning. Shivering, both from the rain and fear of pursuit, my mind wrestled with one question.

How did they find me?

I’d been careful. No contacts, no loose ends. Sergei was my only lifeline, and I was certain he had not given me up. He wouldn’t. I was sure of it.

As sure as I could be.

The microfilm—that damned strip of celluloid—was my only leverage, my last card to play in a game that was quickly unraveling. I’d hidden it well. There was no way they could link it back to me.

A shot rang out, splintering a lamppost only a few yards away at street level.

I swore and surged up the stairs and down another alley, this one narrower and darker. Two more shots rang out, sending concrete shrapnel from nearby buildings in all directions.

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