Page 44 of Mission Shift

I moved first, unholstering my Glock and tossing it into the dirt. Braxton stood still, keeping his hands raised, the Makarov remaining in his waistband. He had no idea what they were saying.

The men took a couple of wary steps toward us, and then all hell broke loose.

The men from the SUV that had approached us from behind rushed me, shouting for me to get on my knees.

The ones from the front went for Braxton.

I didn’t comply, and as soon as the first man reached me, I threw an elbow into his throat, using his momentary stumble to grab his rifle and yank it forward, knocking him off-balance. Another man grabbed my arm. I twisted, slamming my knee into his stomach, but their grip on me didn’t loosen.

Chaos erupted, followed by shouting and struggling.

I caught a glimpse of Braxton, who was twisting, thrashing, trying to break free as they dragged him toward their SUV. Hefought like hell, landing blows where he could, refusing to go down easily.

I wanted to scream for him not to fight, but a fist crashed into my face, rattling my skull. I staggered back, my vision swimming for a split second before instinct took over.

Memorize. Everything.

License plate. Type of vehicle. Their faces. The way they move. Their accents.

I was back in Special Intelligence mode now.

A hard punch connected with my ribs, another with my stomach. I gritted my teeth, refusing to make a sound, even as pain detonated throughout my body.

Braxton’s roar cut through the noise of the melee.

I snapped my head up, blood dripping from my lip. Four men were on him now, struggling to keep him contained. His entire body strained against the men holding him back, veins bulging in his neck, his face contorted, his teeth bared in a feral snarl. He fought like a man possessed, but his eyes—God, his eyes—locked onto mine, dark with something more than anger. It was sheer, undiluted agony, carving lines across his face as he threw himself forward again.

He clearly understood what me getting dragged back into Russia would mean for me.

His eyes were wild, desperate, and he kept them locked onto mine as he fought. “Get the fuck off me!” he bellowed. “You have no idea what you’re doing! You’ve got it all wrong!”

Another punch crashed into my ribs, forcing me to my knees.

Braxton lost it.

With a violent jerk, he nearly tore free from his captors, the raw power of his fury taking over for a split second. “Daria!”

“Stop!” I gasped, but the wind was knocked out of me as a kick landed on my kidney, sending me sprawling onto my side.

Braxton continued to scuffle, trying to command the men into compliance—like he couldtalkthese men into letting us go.

Irrational.

These weren’t men you reasoned with.

A sharp sting exploded at the base of my neck.

My vision tilted, then tunneled.

“Daria!” Braxton’s voice rang out—desperate, frantic—as darkness swallowed me whole.

Chapter sixteen

Fighting against them was like trying to claw my way out of quicksand. No matter how hard I struggled to throw them off, it was no use; more hands grabbed at me, yanking, pulling, forcing me toward the SUV.

But I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

Daria fought like a woman possessed—throwing elbows, fists, knees, her every move lethal—but she was outnumbered. Too many assailants were striking and restraining her. She was taking hits she shouldn’t have been taking.

---