Page 53 of Mission Shift

I let out a ragged breath. “I pitied him.”

Fedorov’s grin faltered, but he didn’t respond.

“He wasn’t a soldier, wasn’t a spy,” I rasped. “He was a paramedic. A fucking aid worker. Delivering meals to starving civilians.” I coughed, my entire body trembling. “Just another dumb American who thought he could do some good in a place he didn’t understand.”

Fedorov scoffed, but I pushed on.

“I thought I could use him,” I continued, forcing my voice to be steady. “A goodwill gesture. A way to gain the Ukrainians’ trust. I’ve been working to infiltrate their local networks, and—”

His hand smacked my face so hard my head snapped sideways.

Blood filled my mouth.

“Lies.”

I clenched my teeth, forcing myself not to react, but my ears were still ringing when he grabbed my jaw and yanked my face toward his.

“That American wasn’t some innocent aid worker,” he sneered, his eyes burning with annoyance. “He’s aclose associateof Nikolai Volkov.”

My stomach dropped.

“No,” I whispered, shaking my head.

Fedorov chuckled darkly. “Oh, yes.”

I stared at him, my pulse pounding. It wasn’t possible. Braxton was…uncomplicated. He wasn’t—

Fedorov tilted his head, studying me as I processed this. He was clearly enjoying the doubt creeping across my face. “Who do you think arranged the trade two days ago? Nikolai Volkov. He’s been tracking your little adventure over the border this whole time.”

“No,” I said again, more forcefully. “That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?” Fedorov leaned in. “You think I’d pull something like that out of my ass? How do you think we pinned you in at theperfect spot inside Ukrainian territory? You know Volkov has a special skill set.”

I ground my teeth, struggling to process what I’d just been told.

Braxton had been apprehended, beaten, and almost tortured by the very men of this prison. The ambush of the aid workers’ van was all over the news. He had let me take charge and followed my lead. The fear in his eyes when I’d barged into that house was real, as was the concern he’d shown for Zelenko. He couldn’t possibly have been faking his emotions and intentions that well under those circumstances—could he? The way he had touched me wasreal. He’d kissed me like Imattered.

Fedorov let out a harsh laugh. “Oh, Ilovethis. You really didn’t know?”

I forced myself to keep my face blank.

He grinned. “Your American paramedic isn’t just some do-gooder. He and his brothers aided Volkov in orchestrating theRed Weddingin Manhattan—Nikolai Volkov’s grand little massacre.”

The words crashed into me, stealing the air from my lungs.

I froze.

Fedorov noticed.

His grin widened. “Ah, so youdoknow about it. Guess that means you also know Volkov personally saw to it that his own mother and father, as well as his aunt, were offed that day.”

No.Braxton didn’t have that sort of violence in him. That was not the MO of a longtime paramedic—a man who liked to hold hands and please a woman without expectation.

I searched Fedorov’s face for a crack, for any hint of deception, but there was none. He was telling the truth.

Braxton…Braxton?

Not possible.

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