Page 116 of Mission Shift

“Got it. We’ll find a way around them one way or the other.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “It’d be smarter to jump out of that window.”

“Smart is not dropping dead from poison before you can take ten steps.” I angled my body to face her, forcing her to look at me. “Let’s get to the kitchen and remove that thing from your arm. Then we leave.”

She exhaled hard through her nose but didn’t argue.

Nik barked. “Hallway’s clear, but keep it tight. No hesitation. Move!”

I tugged on Daria’s hand, and we slipped out of the bathroom.

The distant hum of laughter and music drifted toward us from the ballroom.

We bolted down a hallway and then took a right, Daria shadowing me. When we approached the massive double doors leading to Malinov’s gathering, we pulled back to a more casual pace. My skin prickled as we crossed; I was waiting for someone to turn, for a head to snap in our direction.

Nothing.

We cleared it and resumed our quick pace.

Nik’s voice cut in. “Goons at the ballroom door and heading in your direction. I’ve got control of all the camera feeds and am looping them so they’re blind.”

We turned down a corridor, leaving the party behind. Within seconds, we were dashing down the grand staircase with my arm wrapped around Daria’s waist.

She moved swiftly despite the heels she was wearing.

Nik hissed. “Fuck. Malinov’s thug is at the top of the stairs.”

Daria and I didn’t break stride.

Just as we turned in the direction of the kitchen, Nik warned, “He’s working to track you. No ID on your back yet, but he’s moving fast. I can’t loop the feed again this soon.”

Up ahead, I spotted a narrow hallway that led from the main corridor into the staff section.

I grabbed Daria’s arm and veered hard left. We kept moving. A set of steel double doors loomed ahead, swinging open as a server rushed out with a platter of pastries. We slipped in before the doors could close.

The lighting here was harsh—industrial fluorescents. The air was thick with the scent of warm bread, seared meat, and something sweet. The kitchen buzzed with activity. Dishes clattered, pans sizzled, and the chef barked out orders to the staff.

Daria shifted closer to me as a man in a pressed black-and-white uniform brushed past us, carrying a tray of champagne flutes. He barely glanced at us.

Nik exhaled. “You lost the tail. He walked past the turn.”

We made our way further into the controlled storm of the kitchen.

Then a woman in a black shirt and apron strode past, thrusting a large metal mixing bowl into my hands without stopping.

Nik informed me, “It’s okay; she’s one of mine.”

I lifted up the pristine white cloth napkins on top. Beneath them, two large bottles of Beluga vodka were nestled among an array of other supplies.

The operative vanished through another door.

Daria arched a brow.

“Fancy,” I muttered, gripping the bowl. “Let’s move.”

We cut through the kitchen, holding our heads high like we owned the place. A few workers noticed but didn’t stop us. A freezer door loomed at the far end, a massive steel thing.

I pulled it open, guiding Daria inside.

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