Page 8 of Mission Shift

That was the real puzzle. And the Ice Queen wasn’t just confident—she wastooconfident, as if she was unafraid of the Ukrainians. Then, a thought hit me like a freight train. What if she was working both sides?

I stared at the tree limbs overhead, my mind turning everything over. The way she’d commanded those men, barking orders, the way their leader had all but shrunk under her glare… It wasn’t a matter of respecting her rank—it was fear. She was someone important, someone infamous, I’d bet. But if she was so high up, what had she been doing in that house? So much didn’t add up.

I shook my head, trying to clear away the questions. It didn’t matter. What mattered was surviving whatever hellhole they were taking me to. Still, I couldn’t ignore the possibility that the woman who’d commandeered this convoy might be more dangerous than the soldiers dragging me to God knew where.

She wasn’t just my captor. But was she protecting me? Using me? Or was she far more dangerous than I could even imagine? I rested my head against the back of the truck and closed my eyes, letting the vibrations of the engine hum through me.

Atticus’s words looped in my mind: “Putin’s not just playing around. He’s kidnapping people and using them as bargaining chips.” I had brushed him off, too drawn to the idea of adventure. He’d called me reckless.“You’re not just risking your life, Brax. You’re risking getting captured, tortured, God knows what.”

That possibility clawed at me now. My chest tightened as I imagined all the creative horrors they would dream up for someone like me.

The heat pressed down on me, and the constant bouncing of the truck made me want to puke. I guessed it was good that I hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours. Exhaustion pulled at me despite the perilous, uncomfortable circumstances. Sleep came in shallow, restless stints.

The truck slammed to a halt, snapping me awake. My chest heaved as I shot upright, disoriented. A rifle butt cracked against my ribs, pain shooting through me. I gasped, my arms instinctively tightening against my body. The soldier shouted at me in Russian, grabbing me by the arm and yanking me out of the truck.

When my boots hit the ground, I stumbled, my heart pounding in my chest. Towering trees formed a dense canopy overhead, their shadows casting an ominous gloom all around. The forest was unnervingly quiet, the silence broken only by the distant commands of soldiers.

Up ahead, a building loomed, as foreboding as a sealed tomb. What was this place? The industrial framework suggested it might have been a storage facility or factory before the war. The walls were stained with grime, and the narrow windows, most of them cracked or boarded up, hinted at neglect. A tall, rusted chain-link fence fortified with barbed wire stretched around the perimeter except for a gated entrance we must have driven through while I was still asleep.

The soldier shoved me forward, and with each step, my future became more uncertain. The hinges on a large metal door groaned as it swung open, revealing a dim interior that felt as though it would swallow me whole. The air inside reeked of mold and urine. Somewhere deeper in the building, muffled cries echoed, sending a chill across my skin.

Chapter four

They dragged me into a room with gray walls and a flickering fluorescent light hanging overhead. A battered metal desk littered with papers stood in the corner, and next to it, a rack of filthy tools hung on a wall—pliers, a hammer, electrical probes, and a handful of objects I didn’t want to dwell on.

One of the soldiers escorting me growled instructions to another, pointing at me. A clipboard exchanged hands, and a third soldier gestured roughly for me to step forward. My arms were yanked upward, the zip ties biting into my skin briefly before they were sliced off in one quick motion. A beefy hand shoved me against the wall.

The guard screamed at me in Russian, then grabbed my jaw and jerked my head toward the far side of the room. A bright flash followed. I blinked against the sudden light. After anothershout, he yanked my arm, turning me to the side, and another flash went off.

The man closest to the table grabbed my hand without a word, dragged me forward, and slammed it onto an ink pad. One by one, he pressed each of my fingers onto a sheet of paper.

“Familiya?” one of them asked, a word I recognized, but I chose to stay silent, staring at the floor. My hesitation earned me a slap on the back of the head. “Name!” he barked in heavily accented English, his spit hitting the side of my face.

“Thorin,” I said, surprised they didn’t know. Maybe the woman, who now had my backpack with my ID and all my personal stuff, hadn’t updated them yet. The guard shoved me toward the doorway.

My wrists burned as circulation returned, but I didn’t dare rub them. Another soldier shoved me into a hallway lined with rusted doors. His hand clamped down on the back of my neck, steering me like a dog on a leash. I kept my eyes down as we proceeded forward. The floor was cracked concrete, sticky in places where something dark had dried. From behind one door came a muffled scream, wet and raw. Abruptly, it cut off. My stomach churned as bile rose in my throat.

The soldier guiding me halted in front of a cell door that had a small window at the top and a narrow hinged pass-through big enough for a tray of food at the bottom. He punched a code into the box mounted above the handle, tugged up on it, and pushed the door open. He mumbled something indecipherable, shoved me inside, and slammed the door shut. The clang of metal reverberated in my pounding skull.

I stood still for a moment, taking in my surroundings. The walls were unpainted concrete and stained with grunge. A small, barred window near the ceiling let in just enough light that I could make out a thin, filthy mattress shoved against one wall.A rusted bucket sat in the corner. The smell of sweat, rot, and human waste hung in the air, thick enough to gag me.

Slowly I crossed the space and dropped onto the mattress. My body ached from all the hits I’d received since the Ice Queen had come charging into that house.

I pressed my back against the wall, listening to the muffled movements outside the door. Soldiers shouted orders, boots shuffled on the concrete, and a door slammed somewhere in the distance. I wiped my brow, dried blood sticking to the back of my hand.

Where was I? The forest outside suggested we were somewhere rural, but I had no way to tell.

Surely, Nik had to know I was missing by now. That thought raced through my mind, giving me a semblance of comfort. And the Global Food Outreach was too high-profile for this to stay under wraps. Someone would be looking for me. They had to be. Nik was a lot of things—cold, calculating, probably dangerous—but he never wanted to disappoint his sister. He’d promised Anastasia he would keep me safe, so he would find me.

Right?

The problem was time. Would they get here before these Russians decided I wasn’t worth keeping alive? My jaw tightened as my thoughts spiraled. Atticus’s warnings came rushing back. I had shrugged him off then, eager to prove I could handle myself. The irony wasn’t lost on me now.

I rubbed a hand over my face, dragging the dried sweat and grit from the road across it. I couldn’t think about torture. Not yet. I had to compartmentalize and keep my shit together. Panicking wouldn’t help me. I focused on breathing, slow and steady, forcing my heartbeat to settle.

God, I was tired. All I wanted to do was sleep. Hopefully I didn’t have a concussion. I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes. The darkness behind my eyes gave me asmall sense of relief here in the midst of this oppressive cell. My stomach growled—a low, twisting ache that reminded me again of how long it had been since I’d eaten. But this was just the beginning. They’d starve me, weaken me, and break me down before they even started asking questions.

Atticus and Conan were going to lose their minds when they found out. I could already hear Atticus’s angry tone, the frustration masking his worry. Conan would joke about kicking my ass for being an idiot, but his voice would shake. They’d come for me, somehow. Or at least they’d try.

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