Page 23 of Mission Shift

She untucked her shirt, awkwardly reached up behind her back, and pulled out a bundle of items—my things. Shooting me a smirk, she dropped them onto the table. “You’re lucky I found them instead of the prison guards. I didn’t want them to know who you were or anything about you—now or when you’re back home.”

I stared at the items, stunned. My passport, my wallet, even the crumpled receipts I’d brought with me—they were all there. “Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you just talk to me before?”

“Because I was trying to keep you alive,” she snapped. “And because I didn’t want you to know who I really am, for your own safety.” She paused, pursing her lips in frustration. “Now you know more than you should, and thanks to you getting captured, I just blew my cover and put a giant target on my back.”

All I could do was stare at her, stunned, as I realized the disastrous situationshewas now in—because of me. “You’re a double agent, yet you helped me—an American in the wrong place at the wrong time,” I said softly.

“I made a mistake,” she said thoughtfully. “I shouldn’t have helped you, much less let you rile me up. I don’t know why I did. Maybe…” She hesitated, her eyes dropping for a moment before meeting my gaze again. “Maybe it’s because you remind me of why I decided to stop working for the Kremlin. Maybe because I couldn’t let them have such a bright-eyed idealist like you… They would have tortured you, you know.”

Her revelations had silenced me again. I swallowed hard, not knowing what to say, so I reached out, cupping her cheek in my hand before I even realized what I was doing. “Thank you,” I said simply, “for keeping me safe.”

She stiffened under my touch, her eyes widening in confusion. For a moment, the air between us crackled.

Then she stepped back, breaking the contact. “Don’t thank me,” she said flatly. “You’re still a liability, and we’re not out of danger yet. Those weren’t fireworks flying over our heads last night.” She reached for the Glock resting on the kitchen table and smirked. Then, without warning, she grabbed the chain between us and tugged, dragging me toward the back door. “Come on, Braxton Wyatt Thorin,” she said with a forced casualness as our arms stretched out between us. “I’m Daria Melnichenko, by the way,” she threw over her shoulder, almost as if it were an afterthought.

“Daria,” I repeated. She twisted to look at me briefly, then turned away again, frowning as if the sound of her name unsettled her. There was more to this woman than I could possibly imagine.

Chapter nine

Daria didn’t give me a choice but to follow her. The handcuffs ensured that much.

She stalked across the deck, Glock in hand, hauling me along without slowing down. The wooden planks, worn soft from years of weathering, creaked under our boots. The porch stretched the full width of the house. It was enclosed by a wooden railing and had a set of steps leading down to the yard. Several ceramic pots sat in the corners, covered in grime and holding the dead remnants of plants. Behind the house, a wide river bordered by trees shimmered under the late morning light. On either side of the house were endless fields of golden wheat.

Daria stopped a few steps away from the railing and yanked my arm forward. I stumbled a half-step closer.

“Hand up,” she commanded.

“What now?” I muttered under my breath, but I raised my cuffed hand anyway. The chain stretched between us as she faced me head-on, her right hand mirroring my left. We stood a couple of steps apart, with our arms bent in an L-shape, the cuffs forcing our wrists and shoulders into perfect alignment.

Her pale-blue eyes zeroed in on the chain. “Hold still,” she said curtly.

She shifted the Glock in her left hand and steadied it a little awkwardly. “Thank God I’m fairly ambidextrous,” she muttered, biting her lip as she focused.

“Wait a second. Are you seriously about to—”

“Stay still!” she snapped. Her jaw clenched as she brought the gun up and aimed it at the chain.

My heart pounded. “You’re going to end up shooting one of us.”

She ignored me and fired. The shot cracked through the air, the recoil making her Glock jerk back slightly. She’d missed entirely, splintering the wooden deck railing to the side of us.

“Damn it,” she cursed, immediately repositioning her grip.

Before I could even protest, she fired again. This time, the bullet grazed the chain, and the jarring impact rattled through the metal and into my wrist.

“Jesus Christ! You’re going to put a hole through my hand!” I yelled, taking a step back and pulling against the cuffs.

“Don’t move!” she hissed, pinning me with a murderous glare. She lined up the Glock for another shot, but I wasn’t about to let her pull the trigger again.

“Stop!” I shouted, jerking her arm back slightly. “You’re wasting bullets. Shooting it in the air won’t work. You can’t stabilize it enough, and you’re not getting the right angle.”

She rolled her eyes, exasperation written all over her face. “And do you have a better idea?”

Despite myself, I smirked. “Actually, yeah, I do.”

Without waiting for her inevitably snide retort, I tugged her over next to the railing. I was keenly aware of how close we were, her shoulder brushing mine as I positioned us.

“Pull it tight and hold still,” I said, stretching the chain taut against the wooden rail.

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