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 amisunderstandingat 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 toshoot 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.
