Page 91 of Beehive

Once outside, I pressed myself flat against the side of the building and peered around the corner down the empty street. I hoped the patrols would be fewer, but after the way we’d kicked their beehive, there was no telling what I might encounter.

A dozen hours earlier, while waiting for Thomas to wake, I’d recalled a code name: Brise. The name translated to “breeze” in English, but I doubted it had much to do with its owner. Brise was a fixer who lived in the British quadrant we’d heard about once during a briefing. He was supposed to have relatives herein the Soviet zone and had a reputation for smuggling supplies. I hoped a resourceful lad like Brise could lead us to a safe house or a sympathetic doctor.

As far as leads went, this one was pretty thin—but it was all I had.

I navigated toward what had once been a small public square. Before the war, there would have been shops, a café, maybe a bakery or two. Now, it was a half-bombed plaza with a burned-out fountain at its center.

I’d heard whispers that “certain types” still gathered there after dark to trade while Soviet eyes were looking the other way. Most of what was bought and sold would be useless to us: bits of cloth, ration coupons, old clothing. If they had painkillers, maybe even black-market penicillin, I would find a way to barter. More importantly, if anyone knew of Brise’s whereabouts—or another fixer—I might learn it there.

Reaching the edge of the square, I hid behind a chunk of collapsed masonry and listened. Low voices drifted across the cracked pavement. The glow of a small fire flickered ahead, casting dancing shadows on the surrounding buildings. I kept my pistol drawn but hidden beneath my jacket.

Trust had proven a rare currency of late.

I rounded a corner and caught sight of a small group—three figures huddled close around a metal drum turned upright. Flames rose above the rim. To one side, a woman, her hair wrapped in a scarf, was showing a bottle of something to a wiry man in a threadbare coat. A third figure, tall and silent, lingered a few steps away, acting as a lookout.

I stepped into the light and cleared my throat.

The lookout tensed, and everyone looked my way.

For a second, I expected shouts or gunfire, some reaction to the stranger in their midst; but they just stared, their eyes waryand hollow. Raising my hands slowly, I turned my palms out to show they were empty and I meant no harm.

“I am looking for help,” I said. “My brother is wounded. I need medicine, and a place to hide.”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “You are not Soviet.”

Her accent was German, rough and tired.

The wiry man angled himself away, his hand slipping into his coat, probably gripping a weapon. I couldn’t blame him. I was doing the same.

“No, I am not,” I agreed, keeping my voice steady. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just need help. I even have something to trade.” I had very little worth offering, but maybe I could afford a bullet or two in exchange, or some trinket I’d pocketed without remembering. This part of the plan was still ill-formed.

The lookout stepped forward. Now in the light, I could see an angry scar running down one cheek. He looked me over, his eyes lingering on my worn boots and the bulge where I gripped my pistol.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“A doctor, or at least supplies to treat a gunshot wound. And shelter. A place where the patrols won’t find us.” I paused, considering how much to reveal. “We need to get across.”

There was no need to explain where we needed to cross. Everyone who lived in the Soviet sector knew what that phrase meant. They also understood the attempt was a capital offense.

Still, what risk was freedom worth?

The wiry man let out a quiet, mirthless laugh. “You think crossing is easy? After all that has happened? Do you know how worked up the Soviets are right now?” He shook his head. “You are either desperate or a fool.”

“How about both,” I said, managing a faint smile. “I have to try. My brother’s life depends on it.”

The trio exchanged glances. The lookout stepped back.

The woman moved forward and squared her shoulders to mine. “Show me what you have.”

I reached into my coat and pulled out a thin silver chain, something I’d found in the safe house while searching for food. It was tarnished but might still hold some value. I also offered a single bullet, one of my handful remaining.

The wiry man hissed at the sight of the bullet, as if offended, but the woman’s eyes flickered with interest. She took the chain from me and examined it in the candlelight.

The lookout crossed his arms. “A chain won’t buy you a doctor.”

“I can find more if I have to,” I said, then turned to the woman. “Please, I’m begging.”

Normally, I hated bargaining from a position of weakness, but there wasn’t much choice. Thomas was alone, and every minute ticked us closer toward danger.

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