Page 64 of Mission Shift

Turning slightly, I angled my body so my back faced the cell door. Stealthily, I pressed my fingers into my left boot, feeling along the side of the insole until I hit the familiar edge. My Ukrainian ID was still there.

Relief swam through me; if I could hold on to it, then I’d have a chance of finding a place to live after I escaped my current predicament. I slid my feet into the boots and laced them up. Pacing the room, I rubbed my arms to increase the circulation and almost felt human again.

Heavy footsteps approached. I stepped back from the door as the locks disengaged with a harshclang.The door burst open, and two men walked in.

“Hands and forehead on the wall,” one barked.

I turned to the wall just as rough hands grabbed me, wrenching my arms behind my back. With a quick movement, the cuff I’d been wearing since Braxton snapped it closed on my wrist, fell away. And just as quickly new ones were snapped around both wrists—handcuffs so tight they bit into my skin. Ankle shackles came next, heavy and thick, the short chain limiting my stride. Then, without warning, a black hood was thrown over my head, plunging me into suffocating darkness.

I forced my breathing to remain steady. I knew this tactic—psychological warfare. Sensory deprivation, restriction of movement, and the stripping away of control were all utilized to disorient and instill fear.

It wouldn’t work on me.

A shove between my shoulder blades sent me forward. I attempted to shuffle along, but the shackles made movement awkward, and I stumbled. Hands yanked me back up before I hit the ground. The guards were determined to drag me along, whether I kept pace or not.

Outside, the humidity was thick. Rain came down in sheets, quickly soaking me through.

Another shove, and my hips hit a sharp metal edge. Then a wide hand grabbed me between my legs, heaved me up, and tossed me forward onto my knees.

A hand lifted me up by the armpit and thrust me onto a hard, cold bench. Using his knee, the guard knocked my legs apart and fastened my handcuffs to the edge in between.

A Voronok—a fucking prisoner transport.

Even without being able to see it, I recognized the setup immediately. These armored trucks had small compartments for individual prisoners. The bare interior and unforgiving steel benches lacked seat belts, let alone air conditioning. It wasnothing more than a metal box designed to haul prisoners around.

The door slammed shut, and a bolt locked into place. Seconds later, the engine rumbled to life.

I braced myself as the vehicle lurched forward, rolling over uneven terrain for a few moments before hitting pavement. The vibrations of the truck rattled through my bones.

For hours, I sat in that suffocating steel coffin, my breath damp against the inside of the hood. My shoulders ached from the awkward position I was forced to remain in, and the cuffs dug into my skin with every jolt.

Still, I stayed quiet. They wanted fear? They’d get none from me.

Instead, I focused on listening to the outside world, feeling the rhythm of the road, and marking time in my head.

Soon I picked up a rumble—distant at first, but growing louder.

Trains.

I could hear them. Where the hell were they taking me?

The Voronok came to a stop, its brakes hissing. A moment later, the doors swung open, and I was hauled out. They dragged me along the uneven, slick ground. I continued to stumble and would have face-planted several times if not for their firm grip on me.

Despite this, they kept pulling me forward at a punishing pace. My legs, hindered by the shackles, were barely able to keep up. Then another hand gripped my arm and dragged me sideways. A man lifted me in his arms and unceremoniously dumped me onto a hard floor. It had to be a train car.

The door screeched shut behind me, sealing me in.

I stayed still for a long time, listening. No movement. No other bodies shifting in the darkness.

I was alone.

Slowly, I scooted back, feeling my way to the side of the car and then along the wall until I reached a corner. I braced against it, grateful for something—anything—with which to anchor myself.

Then, carefully, I maneuvered my bound legs up to my chest, curling my spine until I could thread my arms under, pulling my cuffed hands from behind my back to the front of my body. It was clumsy and awkward with the shackles in the way, but I managed.

I yanked the hood off, inhaling the stale air, my damp hair clinging to my face. Blinking, I adjusted to the dim light seeping through the small slats of the car. I’d been right. It was empty, just another metal box.

I had no idea where they were taking me, but I did know one thing. They should have killed me when they had the chance. I was so pissed off at everyone and everything. There would be no stopping my retribution!

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