Page 149 of Mission Shift

“Alexey might’ve disowned her, wiped her name off the books,” Nik went on, “but her blood is still Melnichenko. If she ever has a child…” He let the words hang in the air. “That kid becomes a bargaining chip. Or a target.”

The weight of that slammed into my gut. I reached for Daria’s hand and gripped it tight. “No one will ever know who she is. I’ll make damn sure of that.”

She gave me a soft smile, lifting one brow like she didn’t quite buy it…but wanted to.

“That’s sweet,” she said, “but you don’t get how deep this runs. They never forget. Never let go.”

Nik nodded. “That’s why you both need to have each other’s backs. Always.”

“Understood,” Daria said without hesitation.

I squeezed her hand again. “We’ll figure it out. We made it this far. We’ll handle the rest.”

I took the back of Daria’s head and pulled her in for a kiss.

Nik sat up and groaned. “If I’m going to be stuck on this boat with you two honeymooners for the next two weeks, someone better start pouring me vodka.”

I broke the kiss and grinned. “Pretty sure that’s your go-to regardless.”

Leaning back toward Daria, I pretended to whisper, “When you were first taken and he was hunting for you, I brewed a lot of coffee and bought countless bottles of Beluga.”

Nik snorted. “Coffee and vodka—the perfect combo to keep your ass alive and get shit done.”

Daria raised her mug in a mock toast. “To surviving the next two weeks.”

I clinked mine against hers. “And keeping our clothes on at least some of the time.”

Nik groaned. “God help me.”

He wiped his mouth with a napkin and set his plate aside.

“We’ll hit the fueling port in Norway by morning. Which means it’s time for you two to get your story straight.”

Daria arched a brow. “Our story?”

Nik gave her a look like she was slow. “You’re Dasha Thorin. You two are married American citizens, traveling on a private yacht. You’ve been on a scenic European honeymoon. Sweet. Simple. Don’t screw it up.”

I took another bite of smoked-salmon-topped toast and said with my mouth half full, “We’re not planning to leave the boat. Just fuel up and go.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Nik said. “Norwegian customs officials are professionals. Tight procedures, tighter bullshit radar. If they board—and they probably will—you’ll need to be confident. Any hesitation, any inconsistency, and they’ll crawl right up our ass.”

Daria sat up straighter. “What do you think they’ll ask?”

“Standard stuff—names, countries of origin, purpose of travel. How you met. Where you got married. Your route, your itinerary, maybe even your friends. They’ll want to know why you’re on this yacht, where it’s registered, who owns it, why it’s not on commercial tracking.”

I set my plate down. “So…improv’s a no-go.”

“Exactly,” Nik said. “You’re both private enough on paper to fly under the radar, and the trick is to make it boring. Married couple. Artsy wife who comes from money. Husband who’s a paramedic, a blue-collar type who fell for the city girl. You’re on your honeymoon. Simple. No drama.”

He stood, walked over to the table with all his computer gear, and retrieved a thick folder. He returned and dropped it in front of Daria.

“Everything you need to be Mrs. Dasha Thorin. Passport. Social security card. Washington State birth certificate, driver’s license, medical records, school records, contact information for fake relatives—hell, even a notice for a dentist appointment you supposedly missed last March.”

Daria opened the folder and flipped through the documents, her fingers moving slowly. Her face didn’t change, but I saw her throat bob when she swallowed.

Nik turned back to his table, opened a black case, and pulled out two sleek new phones, handing one to each of us.

“They’re clean. Running my OS. Secure. Untraceable. I can ping you anytime without it leaving a footprint. You’re ghosts with reception.”

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