Page 66 of Shadowfox

“Up ahead,” I murmured.

Will glanced at me but didn’t speak.

I stopped just in front of it, bent down to adjust my bootlace—not a performance, just enough movement to make the act seem ordinary. Will kept walking a few paces ahead, then turned back like he’d forgotten something.

“Lose a glove again?” he asked loud enough to cut through the chilly wind.

I didn’t answer.

My fingers found the edge of the plaque, subtle and cold, and flipped the brass nameplate upside down. One screw was already missing, so the flip took little effort.

And less than two seconds.

I stood, and we resumed walking.

Half a block later, Will slowed to let me catch up.

“You did it?”

“Yes.”

“And our friend?”

“He’s still behind us,” I said.

Will didn’t look back. Neither did I.

We passed a pharmacy with a cracked sign, then turned down a street with no streetlights. The shadows were thick, syrupy.

But we didn’t need to vanish. We just needed to get home.

“You think she’ll see it?” Will asked.

“She’s watching. She’ll know.”

“And our friend?”

He didn’t have to use a name or code name. He really didn’t even have to ask the question. We’d grown so close, year after year, operation after operation, that we just knew what each other was thinking. That should’ve frightened me, terrified me to my core. No one had ever known me like that. I’d never let anyone else in so deep. But with Will, there was no fear, no holding back. He was my one person, my one safe place where I could truly be free.

The urge to turn and grip his shoulders, to pull his lips to mine and never let him go, was almost too much to resist; but mid-operation was a terrible time to toss one’s cover out the proverbial window, no matter how one’s heart yearned for intimacy. Kisses would have to wait.

I lowered my voice to a whisper. “If she sets the meet in time, we’ll know by morning.”

26

Will

Hungaryhadenteredthewar on the side of the Nazis right before Hitler ordered the incursion into Russian territory. When the world rallied against the rising fascist tide, the vice that clamped on Budapest was brutal. According to many residents, the Soviet occupation that followed was even more so.

For those reasons—and a myriad more—few shops remained open after dark. As we strode back toward our hotel, we passed one darkened storefront after another. Those still lit, still hoping to make a final sale before shuttering for the night, were as scarce as a warm breath on that blustery night.

“Can we stop in here a moment?” I asked as we passed a tiny store whose glass door was stenciled with the words,Rádió és Villamossági Bolt. Rickety displays held batteries, light bulbs, and other assorted electronics. Most appeared dusty and untouched for far too long. Two radios, one sporting a wooden case, sat at the center of the display.

Thomas quirked a brow, glanced at the display case, then shrugged. “Need batteries?”

I grinned and shook my head. “Nope. Music.”

An elderly man who moved slower than the frozen Danube hobbled to greet us as we entered. His smile was warm, and it met his eyes. He reached out, taking each of our hands in his rough, weather-worn palms. Looking around, I wondered if any customer had entered his shop since before the war. Every item appeared nestled in a bed of undisturbed dust.

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