Page 85 of Mission Shift

Every hour that passed made it more likely that she’d be lost to me forever.

Across the room, Nik was just as locked in. He had his phone pressed to his ear, and his voice was a low murmur as he spoke to someone in Russian, the gruffness in his tone making it clear he wasn’taskingfor favors.

He made another call, drumming his fingers against the desk, his mind moving a million miles an hour.

He wasn’t just chasing digital ghosts—he was pulling on every string he had in Russia.

After several minutes of intense conversations, he leaned back, his expression unreadable.

“Fuck me. He’s directly involved. No wonder her whereabouts have been so secure,” he muttered under his breath.

I looked up from the screen. “Who?”

Nik’s lips curled in irritation. “Alexey fucking Melnichenko. Daria’s father. He made a deal with the Kremlin to interrogate and then dispose of her however he sees fit. I’ve had eyes all over him, but his estate is a silent fortress. No one in their right mind crosses him. She must be there.”

I gritted my teeth, my fingers tightening around the edge of the laptop.

Of course he was involved.

I had spent enough time around Daria to know how much of a monster her father was. He was a cold, calculating bastard who’d murdered her mother and then shaped her into the perfect Kremlin weapon.

Nik exhaled slowly through his nose. “We need to shake some trees. I need to turn one of Alexey’s own—not an easy task.”

He started sending encrypted messages, offering massive bribes through digital channels so fast it made my head spin.

I didn’t know who he was reaching out to, but I was certain of one thing—he was burning through a lot of cash.

I lost track of time.

I wasn’t sure how long I’d been staring at the laptop screen, but my vision started blurring at the edges, and my temples were pulsing from the headache that had settled behind my eyes.

Nik’s home had turned into a war room. Coffee cups were stacked haphazardly on every available surface, and the stale scent of cigarette smoke hung in the air from Nik’s now-not-so-occasional habit.

The weight of potential failure loomed over us, thick and suffocating.

Then his phone pinged.

A single sharp tone.

Nik sat up straighter, swiping his fingers across the screen. His face changed instantly.

His lips pressed into a thin line, his usual arrogance—gone.

Every ounce of blood drained from his face.

I knew that look, and my stomach turned to lead.

“What?” I demanded.

Nik hesitated.

“What?”

He exhaled sharply, then read the message aloud.

“She’s in Alexey’s house in St. Petersburg. She was taken there after her capture,” he read, clearing his throat. “She was tortured until she was unconscious. Then they carried her to her childhood bedroom. She’s awake now, but…”

He stopped.

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