Page 105 of Mission Shift

I lunged, but hands clamped down on my arms, dragging me back. “Malinov—”

He ignored me and turned, tossing the blade to one of his men.

“Do it.”

Svetlana thrashed, her cries becoming more desperate. “No, please—”

The man grabbed her by the hair, jerking her head back.

The blade flashed, slicing her from ear to ear.

A wet, gurgling sound filled the room. Svetlana’s body spasmed, then went still.

A feral scream tore from my throat.

Her head lolled back, her eyes unseeing. Her body folded, crumpling onto the cold floor. Blood spread in a slow, pooling wave, creeping toward my feet.

Malinov slid an arm around my waist, tugging me close as if we were lovers. My body didn’t move. I wasn’t sure it could.

His lips brushed my ear. “It’s time to greet our guests.”

He turned me toward the door with a satisfied hum. “Put on your best face now. We wouldn’t want anyone thinking something is out of place, would we?”

Numbness seeped into my bones. My legs moved, but my mind refused to follow.

Svetlana’s body. The blood.

I forced my gaze away from her.

She would not die for nothing.

In a daze, I was led up to the ballroom. Music pulsed through the grand hall while we weaved our way through the crowd of Russia’s elite. Chandeliers bathed the ballroom in a warm golden light. The scent of champagne, caviar, and perfume wafted through the air, layered over fresh flowers. Roses. Lilies. Peonies. The decorators had done a spectacular job. Beauty draped over the grotesque—a gilded illusion.

Almost immediately after we arrived, the receiving line began, and Malinov drew me close. One by one, guests approached, offering pleasantries. I smiled. I spoke. My mouth formed practiced words as I recalled personal details from Svetlana’s notes.

Svetlana…

I locked the thought away.

An hour passed. More guests. More smiles. My head spun, but I stayed steady on my feet. Holding firm to my resolution to escape, despite the poison in my arm, I scanned the room furtively, noting every exit, every guard’s placement, every possible way out.

A server approached, extending a silver tray.

Glistening on a small porcelain plate was a wobbling slice of aspic, slivers of pale fish trapped in a translucent, quaking gelatinous prison.

The stench of brine and fish oil hit first—pungent and cloying. Underneath it was a dull undertone of vinegar that curled in my nose.

I started to shake my head, but Malinov’s grip tightened. “You will eat.”

I took the plate and cocktail fork, keeping my hand steady even as my stomach twisted. The gelatin trembled. The first bite slithered against my tongue—cold, slimy, and thick with the essence of rotting fish.

The foul taste crawled down my throat. My insides twisted, and bile rose.

I turned sharply, pressing a hand to my mouth and shoving past a nearby guest as I ran for the bathroom I recalled seeing on the way up.

Malinov’s laughter boomed behind me.

“Ah, my little warrior,” he mused. “Sensitive, aren’t we?”

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