Page 76 of Mission Shift

“Okay,” I rasped when the electricity was cut off again. “Okay.”

Dr. Goryachov leaned forward, his thin lips curling into a smirk. “That’s more like it.”

I took a shuddering breath. I had to be careful, had to feed him just enough to keep him on the hook without giving him anything real.

Lie within the truth. Make it plausible.

“He—he didn’t say anything about Volkov.” I blinked hard, feigning exhaustion, playing weak. “I just thought—thought he was a stupid American in the wrong place. I helped him because…” I let my voice trail off, making it sound like I was struggling.

The doctor narrowed his eyes.

“Because?”

I dropped my head against the table, turning my face away as if I were ashamed. “Because he was kind.”

Oleg let out a low laugh. “She’s fucking pathetic.”

Dr. Goryachov tapped his fingers on the metal table. “I still don’t believe you.”

I barely had time to inhale before another jolt cracked through my body.

The pain was sharper now, more precise. It had a rhythm, a purpose, like the bastard was fine-tuning an instrument.

Tears burned my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.

I lost track of time.

Covered in sweat, I shook. Over and over again, my muscles spasmed out of control, every fiber of my being burned with a deep, unrelenting torment.

Finally, the doctor sighed. “You’re stubborn; I’ll give you that.”

My body sagged in relief when he shut the machine off. I was shaking, covered in sweat, and barely had the strength to lift my head.

“Unfortunately,” he continued, stepping away, “electricity only gets me so far.”

My pulse stuttered. I forced myself to look past the haze, past the nausea, past the tremors racking my body, and stay focused on denying the men what they wanted—information.

Dr. Goryachov turned to the metal tray of syringes and vials sitting on a rolling table nearby.

The beeping on the heart monitor ratcheted up.

A soft chuckle left his lips. “Ah, I see you understand.”

Oleg smirked from where he stood, arms folded, watching like a spectator at a coliseum.

Dr. Goryachov picked up a vial, tilting it so the clear liquid caught the dim light. “Scopolamine,” he said. “A favorite of mine.” He pulled a syringe from a sterile packet, slid the needle into the vial, and drew the liquid in. “Some call itDevil’s Breath. I find that rather poetic.”

I clenched my jaw.

“You see,” he continued conversationally, tapping the syringe to clear the air bubbles, “truth serums are not what they show in the movies. They don’t work like magic. This little drug is fascinating. It doesn’t force the truth. It merely…makes one compliant. Suggestible.” He turned his sharp gaze on me. “It erodes the barriers that keep your secrets safe, allowing you to speak freely.”

“I wonder,” Oleg murmured, sweeping his gaze over my battered body, “how much more can you take?”

He smirked as he took hold of my arm, yanking it straight against the table.

I forced myself not to fight as Dr. Gore injected the poison into my arm. The medicine made its way through my veins like liquid fire, a slow, creeping warmth that coiled through my body like smoke.

“Now,” he murmured, placing the syringe back on the tray, “let’s talk.”

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