Page 11 of Mission Shift

I couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d shifted from being my adversary into something else, revealing a different side of himself. I was impressed with the way he had taken my blows, refused to back down, and then—at the sound of Zelenko’s pain—transformed. His instinct wasn’t to fight but to heal, to bring comfort even when someone was trying to kill him. He’d looked at Zelenko with such calm, told him he’d be okay even though he had to have known the truth. In his eyes there had been genuine compassion. Those kinds of eyes didn’t belong to liars or cowards. They were the kind of eyes someone could hold on to in their darkest moments. That kind of human decency was foreign to me. It was a quality I’d never witnessed in the cold, calculated men who had shaped my life—the Bratva, the Kremlin. It made him dangerous because it drew me to him. He was an American, a man risking his life to help in a war that wasn’t his and believing he’d be safe. And that trust in the better angels of our nature was my undoing. And now, for reasons I couldn’t fully explain, I was willing to risk everything to help him. If I hadn’t felt compelled to act before, the decision was now clear. Letting him die here wasn’t a part of the mission I’d chosen—it was unthinkable. My fate was sealed.

The mattress creaked under me as I stood. I began to pace the small room. Exhaustion pressed against me, but I couldn’t afford to take even a moment’s break. The sky had darkened, and that darkness was my only ally. The guards wouldn’t wait forever before turning their attention to him again. Whatever plan I came up with, it had to work. There wasn’t any room for failure, not when the stakes were this high.

Braxton Wyatt Thorin. Paramedic. Volunteer. Stray dog.

Was mine to protect.

A plan started to come together in my mind. I tried to ignore the hunger in my belly and the grime and blood I was coated in. No matter how much I wanted a shower, it would have to wait. Showers didn’t save lives, and they definitely didn’t arm you against the possibility of being exposed. What I needed now were weapons, and fast.

I hated being in large, unfamiliar buildings like this one. Every hallway, every locked door made me feel blind and paranoid—two things that could get me killed in an instant. There was no time for distractions. I needed to move, find the supply room, and get out of this godforsaken place before my luck ran out.

The supply room was dusty and disheveled, the kind of disorganized chaos typical of the Russian military.The supply chief, a wiry older man with a crooked nose and yellowed teeth, sat behind a battered desk, chewing on a toothpick. I was willing to bet his demeanor was every bit as sour as his appearance.

He didn’t even bother to stand when I entered. His beady eyes flicked up briefly, then returned to the stack of papers in front of him.

“What do you want?” he grunted.

I stepped forward, planting my hands behind my back. “Lieutenant Colonel Daria Melnichenko,” I said, my tone cold enough to freeze vodka. “FSB Special Intelligence Division. I need a firearm, a functional blade, and a fresh set of fatigues. Field-grade.”

The toothpick stopped mid-chew. The man’s lips twisted into a smirk. “Field-grade? For you?” His eyes raked over me, and I caught the flare of disdain within them. “We don’t stock women’s sizes.”

I leaned in closer, lowering my voice. “Do you think this is a negotiation, Chief? I need a men’s shirt, size forty-eight, height category four. Pants, size forty-eight, height range one eighty-two to one eighty-eight. Two black T-shirts, standard issue. And socks—cotton or wool, doesn’t matter. Just clean.”

He chuckled, a grating sound that got on my last nerve. “We don’t have much here,Comrade.This is a prison, not a palace. But I’ll see what we have.”

His arrogance was as predictable as it was irritating. “I’m not here for excuses. I’m here for weapons. The highest quality firearm on this base, a proper blade, and fatigues that fit,” I said, my tone growing colder. “Now.”

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “You’ll take what I give you.”

I didn’t bother with words. Reaching across the desk, I grabbed the toothpick from his mouth and snapped it in half. His smug expression faltered as I tossed the pieces onto the desk.

“You’re trying my patience.” I leaned in closer until we were only a couple of inches apart, then grabbed his shirt collar and pulled him toward me. “And I’m not known for my patience.”

The supply chief jumped up, breaking away from my grasp, his chair scraping against the floor. “You think you can just walk in here—”

“I don’t think you understand who you’re dealing with.” I placed both hands on the desk. “Lieutenant Colonel Daria Melnichenko. FSB Special Intelligence,” I repeated, spitting out each word while pinning him with a glare. “I could have you digging coal with a single phone call, and trust me, I’d barely break a sweat doing it. The only reason you’re still breathing is that I haven’t decided you’re in my way. Yet.”

He stared at me and, without a word, picked up the phone on his desk and dialed. A heated exchange with Taranov followed. I didn’t need to hear both sides to know what was happening. Taranov’s barking orders carried through the receiver, and the supply chief’s face turned pale.

“Yes, sir. Understood,” he mumbled, hanging up the phone.

He turned back to me, his demeanor suddenly respectful. “I’ll get what you asked for,Lieutenant Colonel.Please, wait a moment.”

“Good decision,” I said, stepping back and crossing my arms.

The chief rummaged through the shelves with newfound urgency. After a few minutes, he returned with a Glock 19 Gen 5 MOS. And surprisingly, it was pristine, clearly maintained with care, and equipped with a suppressor and a red-dot optic mounted on the slide for precision. He set it on the desk along with a couple of magazines, followed by a sturdy NR-43 combat knife with a matte-black finish. I examined the single-edged blade and solid grip. It wasn’t flashy, but this knife would meet my needs.

“Now for the fatigues and other things,” he said, rushing to another area of the room. He came back with a stack of clothing, including a set of black fatigues and a tactical belt. He sat them on a table next to his desk.

“You forgot something,” I said, tapping the desk. “I need an access ID.”

“Yes, of course,” he stammered, fumbling through a drawer. He pulled out a blank card, shoved it in a small printer, and typed rapidly on his computer. After a moment, the printer whirred to life, spitting out a temporary card he then fed into a laminator. The result was crude but functional—a scannable access ID with the facility’s emblem displayed on the top and my name and rank printed underneath.

While he finished the paperwork, I examined the Glock. The suppressor and optic, while excellent for precision work, made holstering impossible. I decided to detach both and set them aside for now.

Next, I grabbed the tactical belt and wrapped it around my waist. I fastened the buckle and adjusted the fit until it sat snuglyon my hips. Once the belt was secure, I attached the holster, sliding it into position at just the right angle.

With the belt and holster in place, I organized the remaining gear, then picked up the Glock again, testing the weight of it in my hand, appreciating its balance—solid and reliable, just how I liked it.

---