Page 21 of Mission Shift

Grabbing a slice of Spam, I tore off a hunk with my teeth. It was salty and oddly satisfying. Between the two of us, we demolished the entire can in minutes. After days of nothing but adrenaline and fumes, the processed meat tasted better than any steak dinner I’d ever had.

The sun was shining brighter and lighting up the room now. It was going to be another hot day, and I wasn’t looking forward to what lay ahead, but at least I had managed to get some food. She sat quietly, focusing entirely on what she was eating. She didn’tsay a word, didn’t meet my eyes, merely chewed methodically as if it were just another task to complete.

“Thanks for breakfast,” I said dryly, raising my glass of water in a mock toast.

Her eyes flicked to mine for a brief second, and for the first time, I thought I recognized a hint of amusement…maybe.

We continued eating in silence, the scraping of our spoons against the bowls the only sound. The farmhouse was quiet, as though the world outside had pressed pause, but the air between us was far from calm. It was tense and charged with an energy I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Every time her hand brushed mine or the chain yanked on my wrist, my pulse kicked up, and her tension bled into me. Was it frustration? Or something else? Either way, it was crawling under my skin and impossible to ignore.

It wasn’t just the situation we were in—being on the run, on the constant edge of survival—it washer. This woman was dangerous, and she knew it, owned it, and dared me to take her on. Yet beneath all that was an undercurrent of attraction I couldn’t explain but sure as hell felt.

I didn’t know what was going on between us, but one thing was clear: she was unlike anyone I’d ever met, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to run from her iciness or straight into her fire.

Chapter eight

We sat across from each other at the kitchen table. Her face was unreadable, her ice-cold, light-blue eyes darting between me and her glass of water.

I pulled the pistol from my waistband and set it on the table next to hers. Leaning forward, I propped one elbow on the table while I rested my other hand—the one tethered to hers by the damn handcuffs—next to my bowl. She was still eating, acting like this was just another day, like we weren’t running for our lives. I shoved another bite of oatmeal into my mouth, took a long drink of water, and studied her.

“Okay,” I said finally, meeting her unblinking gaze. “It’s obvious you’re not just some Russian operative. There’s more going on here, and I’m not stupid. I get that you let metake you hostageback there—hell, you practically handed me the gun.So…” I took a long, deep breath, pinning her with my gaze. “Who the fuck are you?”

I didn’t really expect her to respond. She hadn’t so far, and I was already getting used to talking to a brick wall. But I waited anyway, watching her closely. Her eyes glanced at the gun I’d just set down, and I thought, for half a second, that she might speak. But no. She just sat there and stared at me.

Her silence pushed my patience to the limit, and all the pent-up anger I’d been keeping under wraps broke free. “You know, it’s notjustthe prison, or even the fact that I’m chained to someone who clearly has a hell of a lot more going on than she’s admitting that pisses me off. No, it’s more than that. It’s this whole damn situation. This fucking war. Who knows what your part in it is? It’s not just that I’ve gotten myself caught up in this nightmare, it’s what I’ve witnessed that makes me really pissed off. It’s the endless cycle of suffering—how this nightmare the Ukrainians are trapped in is just another chapter in a long, bloody history of Russian dictators screwing over their own people and anyone else who gets in their way. The pain, the destruction—it all stems from their greed and thirst for power.”

I pointed a finger at her. “Do you even think about the history of the regimeyou’rea part of? Marxism, Leninism, Stalinism—whatever damn ‘ism’ it is, it’s all the same poison. Lenin started it, promising the workers freedom and equality if they took out the tsar and ended the monarchy, but what did he actually do? He kicked off decades of repression, secret police, and starvation. And Stalin? Don’t get me started on that bastard. The man turned oppression into an art form. The gulags, the purges, the forced famines to starve his own people into submission… How many millions of lives did he destroy to build his Soviet empire? Too many to count, and for what? To concentrate all the power and wealth at the top while everyone else toils in misery. It’s the same damn story over and over—just different players.”

I scoffed, leaning back in my chair but not taking my eyes off the woman whose name I still didn’t know. “And now we’ve got your man, Putin, who’s taken all that Soviet authoritarianism and communist corruption, wrapped it in a new flag, and polished it up with the kind of propaganda even Stalin would’ve envied. Orthodox Christianity? Please, give me a fucking break. He’s twisted it into a tool of control, a way to brainwash the masses into thinking his regime is divinely ordained. The media? It’s not journalism anymore—it’s a megaphone for his lies. And the KGB tactics? Those didn’t die with the USSR; they just got an upgrade and a new name. Poisoning dissidents, throwing opponents out of windows, invading Ukraine, and trying to pass it off as some holy war for Russian glory—it’s the same shit, different century.”

I sat back, running a hand through my hair, my voice growing louder. “And what’s it all for? To prop up billionaire oligarchs, to curry favor with the Russian mafia, to line the pockets of the top one percent while the rest of the country struggles to make a decent life for themselves. And it’s not just the Russian people he’s crushing. He’s exporting this madness—this cancer—to anyone who gets in his way. Ukraine dared to want democracy, dared to want freedom, and now? Look where that’s gotten them—cities reduced to rubble, children buried under the debris, and brave men and women fighting tooth and nail for the right to decide their own fate and preserve their way of life.”

The muscles in my jaw tightened as I slammed my fist on the table, the impact rattling the glasses. “And here you are, sitting across from me, silent as a damn tomb. Do you even care about what’s happening to your fellow Russians, much less the Ukrainians, or are you just another cog in the machine? Another faceless operative helping Putin grind down everyone who stands against him?”

My heart pounded with the force of my rant, my frustration bleeding into the silence. I didn’t even know why I was pushing so hard. Maybe I needed to know she wasn’t just a monster in human skin. Maybe I wanted to believe there was more to her than this icy exterior. I leaned back, shaking my head. “Because I’ll tell you what—I may not know your story, but I sure as hell know the story of the regime you’re part of. And it’s nothing but blood, lies, and greed. So go ahead, sit there and pretend like this isn’t your problem. But if you’re helping that bastard destroy lives, then you’re just as bad as him.”

I couldn’t stop myself; the words continued to pour out—more for me than her—as my anger boiled over. “You just shot a kid, for God’s sake! Barely old enough to shave, and you didn’t even blink. And you didn’t just leave one of your own men behind; you blew him up while he was still alive. What is wrong with you? Is that normal for you? Kill whoever’s in the way and move on?”

Rising from my seat, I leaned forward until my face was mere inches from hers. I didn’t know what had driven me to this level of anger or why I was shouting all these accusations at her. Maybe it was the exhaustion, the lingering hunger, or my sheer frustration with the situation I’d been thrown into. Or maybe it was the fact that her silence made me feel free to say whatever the hell came to mind. Who knew?

“That’s the problem with people like you—Russian Special Forces. The FSB probably raised you, taught you to see people as expendable. Just like every other high-ranking Russian officer.”

She stiffened in her chair, her eyes narrowing to slits. For the first time since we’d met, her icy exterior cracked. Finally, she opened her mouth to respond, but when she spoke, it wasn’t in Russian.

“You want me to talk?” she spat in perfect English—with a Midwestern American accent and all. “Fine. Let’s talk, BoyScout. You’re an arrogant, hypocritical asshole if you ask me. Don’t you dare talk to me about morality. Let me guess—you’ve never stepped foot outside your precious borders before this little adventure, have you? And yet, here you are, spewing your holier-than-thou bullshit. Do you think your pristine hands are clean because you haven’t pulled a trigger yet?”

Her words stunned me for half a second and I dropped back down onto my chair. “What the—? So youdospeak English!”

She huffed out a bitter laugh. “Yes! Of course I do.” She leaned back in her chair, hauling me forward by the wrist. “You made your own assumptions, and it wasn’t my job to correct you. God, you Americans with your one language and your inability to grasp that the rest of the world doesn’t revolve around you! Most of us grow up speaking two, three, four languages just to survive, but you? You attack anyone in your country who dares to speak something other than English! And now you expect me to cater to you, to explain myself to you? I owe you nothing.”

“You’ve been playing me this whole time,” I growled. “Letting me talk, letting me think you couldn’t understand a damn word. Manipulative as hell—”

“Manipulative?” She shot to her feet, her face twisted in fury. “Don’t flatter yourself. If I wanted to manipulate you, you wouldn’t even know it. I kept my mouth shut because I didn’t trust you. And judging by your little tirade just now, I was right not to. You’re nothing but a naïve, self-righteous fool. Typical American, thinking you can waltz into someone else’s war and play the hero. Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound, lecturing me about decency?Your country’sdecency? Shall we talk about Vietnam? Iraq? Afghanistan? Guantánamo Bay?”

“That’s not the same!” I shouted back, the heat in my chest rising.

“Of course it’s not the same,” she said with a mocking sneer. “Because when America does it, it’sliberation, isn’t it? Andwhen Europe turns a blind eye to war crimes in Syria, it’sdiplomacy.”

I launched myself from my chair, the force sending it skidding back. She glared up at me, our hands hanging awkwardly between us. “You want to talk about decency?” I growled. “You’re the one shooting people like it’s nothing. That guard back there—he wasn’t even aiming at us. You didn’t have to shoot him—twice.”

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