Page 19 of Mission Shift

My mind raced through the possible scenarios we might be facing. Were they tracking us using infrared? Would we receive a direct hit? Would the jeep flip if a stray round found us? I was on the edge of my seat with terror, sure we’d be blown to hell any second, but the Ice Queen continued driving with an almost inhuman composure. I’d always thought I was good under pressure until I met her.

When the sounds of battle finally faded into the distance, replaced by the quiet hum of the jeep’s engine, I exhaled and loosened my grip on the pistol she’d given me. Man, were my fingers stiff.

For several hours we drove in silence, carefully navigating what had once been a road. The night stretched on and on. Since the van ambush, I hadn’t had more than a few scraps of sleep, nothing to eat, and barely any water to drink. I was running on empty in every possible way, wondering if this nightmare would ever end.

Finally, as my eyes were starting to get heavy, the first rays of sunlight pierced through the edge of the forest, casting a golden glow over the landscape ahead. The trees soon thinned out, revealing an open field. In the distance, a farmhouse came into view, its silhouette dark against the rising sun. Beside it, I could make out a barn and a few smaller structures. Beyond that, the glint of water caught my eye—there was a lake or a river behind the house.

Relief flooded through me. Finally, somewhere we could stop. I flexed my fingers, wincing at the ache I had in my hand from gripping the gun for so long. The smell of the grass carried on the breeze, clean and refreshing—a dramatic difference from the stench radiating off me.

God, I needed that water—any sort of bath. More than two days’ worth of grime clung to me, and I could smell every damn bit of it. I glanced down at my shirt. It was crusted with blood and who knew what else. My jeans weren’t much better—filthy and stiff. There was no hiding the toll the past couple of days had taken on me—inside and out.

The iron lady next to me, on the other hand, looked like she’d just stepped out of some tactical gear catalog. She’d had time to shower and change at the prison. Meanwhile, I was a walking biohazard. No wonder she was pissed about being cuffed to me.

I stretched my legs a little and repositioned my hips in the seat, grimacing when the steel of the handcuff bit into my wrist again. What had I been thinking? I’d slapped them on her in a moment of pure impulse, figuring that, if I didn’t, she was going to ditch me the second she got the chance, leaving me to some worse fate. Now, I was sure it had been a terrible idea. There was no way either of us could fight or move quickly with these things on. I was sure the Ice Queen thought I was an idiot. But then again, at the time, I’d had no idea she was breaking me out of that place. I still didn’t know what her intentions were.

I glanced over at her again. She hadn’t relaxed an inch. Her eyes were darting between the dirt road ahead of us and the rearview mirror. She was on edge, and that put me on edge.

What was she thinking? Was she planning to leave me in the middle of nowhere? Or worse, shoot me and dump my body?

The jeep hit a bump, jostling us. She growled under her breath, shifting gears and slowing the vehicle. Eventually, the road became less overgrown as we approached the farmhouse, transitioning to a dirt road that curved behind the barn.

When we pulled up to the farmhouse, it became apparent that the place was abandoned. There was no movement anywhere on the premises. There were no lights on anywhere, no smoke from the chimney.

She slowed the jeep, her hand brushing mine as she changed gears one final time. I hated that she hadn’t spoken to me since we’d escaped, and I still wondered how well she understood or even spoke English. She’d shouted a few words that were almost indiscernible due to her thick accent, but who knew?

We rolled to a stop behind the barn, hidden from view of the main road.

“Now what?” I asked.

She didn’t respond but continued scanning the area. Finally, she edged forward and came to a stop under a sagging carport, its rusted roof rattling in the wind. The early-morning light further revealed the dilapidated state of the farm—peeling paint, overgrown grass, and no signs of life.

Without a word, she yanked against the handcuffs, pointing toward my door. Her lips curled in irritation as she muttered in Russian, gesturing for me to get out of the jeep. In her free hand, she swung the Glock around, its presence a reminder of just how precarious my situation was.

I grabbed my pistol, shoved the door open, and started to exit the vehicle awkwardly. Her body twisted to follow me,her shoulder smacking into mine. She muttered another string of biting words in Russian, her tone leaving no doubt she was pissed off. Frustration radiated off her in waves as she clambered over to my side and crawled out the door, shoving me forward.

I hesitated for a second, unsure of our next move. She turned back to the jeep, tugging on the cuffs and glaring at me with eyes that demanded compliance. Roughly, she shut the door, spitting out more rapid-fire Russian words that I didn’t stand a chance of understanding.

“I don’t speak Russian, you know!” I snapped, exasperated.

Her response was a sarcastic smirk, one corner of her mouth curling up in a way that somehow managed to piss me off and intrigue me at the same time. She waved her hand impatiently as if to say, “Get moving,” before walking out from the carport. She didn’t wait for me to start moving; she just started walking, dragging me along. I rolled my eyes but fell into step beside her.

The Ice Queen cautiously turned toward the barn. As we drew nearer to it, she pulled me closer, angling her body slightly in front of mine—a protective effort that didn’t go unnoticed. She then interlaced her fingers in mine, taking a firm hold. It was a move so casual and efficient that it caught me off guard. Her touch sent a strange current through me, like electricity sparking under my skin.

Her focus was laser-sharp, her eyes scrutinizing every shadow.

When we approached the barn door, she crouched low, her Glock steady in her hand. Her head tilted subtly as she listened for the slightest sound. She used her foot to nudge the barn door open a few inches, peering through the gap before slipping inside. I followed. For a second, my chest pressed against her back, and I felt the tension in her shoulders.

The barn was empty—just a few broken tools and an old tractor collecting dust. She didn’t relax though. She continued investigating until she had swept every nook and cranny.

After exiting the barn, we moved toward the house at a slow pace. Her steps were light and deliberate, barely disturbing the gravel beneath her boots. Her fingers clenched around mine, tension radiating through her touch, silently signaling her anxiety as we advanced.

Her eyes darted to the windows, and I focused my gaze there as well, scanning for any movement or signs of life. Her fingers pressed tighter against mine, and she took a measured breath.

When we reached the porch, she paused, kneeling beside the steps. She ran her cuffed hand beneath a wooden plank at the edge of the porch, pressing down. It took me a second to realize she was checking for booby traps.

Who the hell was this woman?

Every movement she made was so precise, so calculated, but her behavior also raised a thousand questions. She wasn’t just some soldier. She was trained—really well trained. Special Forces maybe? Intelligence? My suspicion grew the more we were together, but so did my respect.

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