Page 12 of Mission Shift

I grabbed the magazines from the desk and checked them, inspecting the rounds inside. Fifteen in each. That would do.

I inserted one magazine into the Glock, locking it in place. A smooth pull of the slide chambered a round. The compact gun fit perfectly in the holster, the retention system locking the weapon in place with a reassuring click. I secured the spare magazine on my belt and gave the gear one final check. Everything was ready.

The chief finished preparing the ID and handed it over. I clipped the card to my belt, ensuring it was positioned for easy scanning.

“Anything else?” he asked, as if he hoped I’d say no.

“Yes,” I said, leaning forward. “I need some information.”

His eyes widened slightly, and he swallowed hard. “What kind of information?”

I rapped my fingers on the desk. “It seems this facility wasn’t originally designed to function as a prison. So I’m wondering, specifically, where it’s weakest. Vulnerable points. Places people don’t watch as closely as they should.”

He hesitated, his gaze darting to the side. “Lieutenant Colonel,” he began carefully, “this prison is secure. It was built to—”

I raised my hand. “Don’t waste my time with lies. Every system has cracks. Every building has weaknesses. I’m not askingifthey exist—I’m askingwhere. It’s part of my job to review security wherever I go.” I cleared my throat and cocked my head to the side, narrowing my eyes at him. “You’ll answer me, or I’ll start questioning why you’re being evasive.”

That did the trick. He shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. “The loading bay,” he admitted reluctantly. “It’s in the back of the building. Trucks come and go with supplies, and security’s…less rigid there.”

I arched a brow, studying him for a second. “How many guards are posted there, and what’s their rotation?”

“Two guards during deliveries, sometimes just one when it’s quiet,” he stammered. “They rotate every six hours, but it depends on the schedule.”

“Good.” I stepped back, gathering my things. “You’ve been surprisingly useful. Maybe you’ll last here after all.”

His lips twitched into what might’ve been a nervous smile before I turned away.

Once I was back in my quarters, I set everything down on the cot I would never use, desperate for a shower and eager to finalize my plan. Time was running out; I needed to get going.

The showerhead hissed as I turned it on, and a few moments later, steam filled the cramped bathroom. Hot water sprayed over my skin, easing muscles that ached from the hellish days I’d just survived. The mission with Zelenko had gone sideways fast. A small band of Russian soldiers had stumbled upon us. We’d been meeting with our Ukrainian handlers—men I trusted, men who had risked their lives to keep me fed with intelligence and keep my cover intact. We’d been there to update them on some recent North Korean conscripts Putin had sent to the front lines.

It had been sheer bad luck. When they’d come into the warehouse, guns blazing, we’d managed to return fire, taking them down fast, but not fast enough. One of those bullets had torn into Zelenko’s gut, dropping him hard. The image of him crumpling onto the ground replayed in my mind like a slow-motion nightmare. Worse still, our Ukrainian handlers—two men who had known my true allegiance—hadn’t made it out alive.

Their deaths left me in a dangerously precarious position. Only a handful of people knew I was a double agent, and now that number was smaller than ever. That firefight might have compromised my mission, but saving the American would blow it all to hell.

I sighed. Zelenko had been a good man—one of the few with real integrity. He was the kind of person this war couldn’t afford to lose. Losing him stung, but with the two handlers gone as well, I’d lost any semblance of stability I had in this mess. Now I didn’t know who I could trust on the Ukrainian side.

Dammit, I was so sick of being a tool of the government, sick of good people dying. Surely, there was another path for me.

For the last year, I’d worked hard doing everything I could to make amends for all I’d done on behalf of the Kremlin throughout my life, especially the part I’d played in this war early on.

I had long since given up on the normal things women in their early thirties dreamed of. No—love and children would never find a woman who’d lost her humanity.

There could have been a worse fate for me, but my father had done me one favor: he’d handed me over to the Kremlin instead of relegating me to the life of a typical mafia princess—where I’d be told exactly what to do, how to look, what to eat, how to think. At least I knew how to take care of myself and had a decent amount of independence. The noose around my neck had been loose enough for me to cross sides and, if I was lucky, find a way to escape.

All I wanted now was retribution and then peace.

I would never truly be able to clean away the dirtiness of my past, but maybe I could learn to live with myself. Maybe I could help save a stray dog and start my life over, shift my mission into a more personal one. I could avenge my mother, bring my father to justice, and retaliate against everythingSoviet. Being aconstant thorn in Putin’s side would be my focus. Taking down the billionaire class—men like my father, who laughed at human suffering—was a game I was more than willing to play.

How exactly, I didn’t know, but first things first—we had to get out of this shithole and into a safe area of Ukraine.

The grime and blood that had soaked through my fatigues now swirled down the drain, but the guilt clinging to me wouldn’t wash away so easily. My mind raced faster than my fingers as I scrubbed away layers of filth and lathered my hair—what there was of it.

Short and spiky was easiest, but sometimes I missed my long blonde waves. My hair had been my crown jewel, balancing out my height and giving me the illusion of femininity. Or so I’d thought. The day I’d started at the academy, they’d shaved it off. It was just one of many steps they’d taken to dehumanize me.

I dragged my hands over my face, letting the water pour down. A plan was forming in my mind, the pieces sliding into place, but the risks were glaring.

Braxton Wyatt Thorin—a man who didn’t belong here, a guy who carried his most important possessions around in a backpack like some clueless tourist. Somehow, his naivete didn’t overshadow the fact that I couldn’t leave him here. He was who I was fighting for—good people who brought decency into the world.

---