Page 91 of Mission Shift

Chapter twenty-five

The first week of my captivity had been mostly uneventful, and I was finally able to move without wincing. From within my gilded cage, I spent every waking moment learning everything I could about my father’s estate, in case something went horribly wrong during my escape when they handed me over to Malinov. But I didn’t learn much.

The guards outside were visible from my window, and I’d been studying their patterns. I’d already memorized their rotations, where they lingered, where they slacked off. I was familiar with the layout of the estate, but my father had increased security since I was a little girl. Unfortunately, I would only have a brief window to escape. The clock would start ticking from the moment I stepped foot outside of these doors. I would have until the engagement party ended before I was doomed to a fate worsethan death. Once Malinov had me under his full control, it would be nearly impossible to escape his watchful eye.

This morning, Svetlana had delivered another note. This one she had slipped into my breakfast tray, hidden beneath a linen napkin.

Engagement party at Malinov’s estate will have hundreds of guests. He’s going all out. Security tight, but distractions possible. I have been assigned to work at the party. You must not fight before then. Look weak. Wait. I will sew your passport, IDs, and money into your gown.

The engagement wasn’t just a dinner party with Malinov’s closest associates but a society event. That would mean the press would be there and who knew which dignitaries, along with a whole host of caterers, servants, and others working the event. The more strangers inside Malinov’s estate, the better cover I would have to move about unnoticed. And although there would be more security, there would also be more opportunities for distraction—giving me a much better chance to escape.

The days ticked by slowly. The stronger I grew, the more my anxiety rose. I hated waiting—hated not having an exact plan. One way or another, I would get out of Malinov’s house and run. The plan was to ultimately make my way into Finland.

The Finns despised the Kremlin almost as much as the Ukrainians did; they had suffered the same land grabs and hostage-taking at gunpoint. Once there, I would seek asylum, using my Ukrainian military credentials and the threat of being sold to Malinov as a sex slave as leverage in the Finnish courts.

I just had to survive long enough to make it across the border.

I knew where Malinov’s estate was on Stone Island—I had driven past it many times, seen the high walls and security cameras—but I’d never been inside. Somehow, I would get out and then head west toward the marina near the Bolshoy Petrovsky Bridge on the Little Nevka. It wasn’t far from the estate—less than seven kilometers—but every step would be dangerous. I’d be hunted the second they realized I was gone.

The city wouldn’t be asleep, not entirely—St. Petersburg never truly went dark—but the streets near the marina wouldn’t be heavily trafficked that late at night. I’d keep to alleyways, back roads, and shadows. I would wear a T-shirt and leggings underneath my formal attire, then use the gown as a makeshift backpack. The one thing I would have to get my hands on right away would be a pair of solid shoes. I had run plenty of times in heels, but I would need the best speed and agility I could get. I wouldn’t hesitate to knock out the first person I saw with a pair of boots near my size.

To avoid detection, I would have to move alongside the embankments, sticking close to the river. The sound of water would help mask my movements. Thankfully, I was familiar enough with the city that I would be able to avoid major patrol areas. Even still, by the time I reached the marina, I would have mere minutes before someone noticed me.

The marina was always full of boats—small private vessels, yachts, sleek speedboats, even a few older fishing boats. I wouldn’t need anything large, just something fast enough to cut across the Gulf of Finland before dawn.

I would stay low, move quietly, and pick a boat that looked well-maintained but wasn’t expensive enough to be locked down. In a place like the marina, people got careless.

Once I was inside, I would hot-wire the engine. I had no doubt that I could, because I’d done it before.

And then I’d be gone.

As I sailed, I would keep the boat close to the southern coastline of the gulf, weaving around the smaller islands and inlets while moving toward Finland’s southeastern coast.

I knew the risks—radar detection from Russian border patrols, thermal imaging from overhead drones, coast guard patrols watching for unauthorized vessels, and the brutal, open water itself.

Speed would be my greatest asset. The faster I could get into international waters, the less chance I had of being intercepted. By dawn, I had to be close enough to Finnish territory to either make landfall or abandon the boat altogether. If I kept near the coast but spotted patrol boats or helicopters, I would ditch the boat and swim.

There were hundreds of small, uninhabited islands off the Finnish coast. If I could make it to one, I could hide, rest, and move inland under the cover of darkness and trees.

If the marina was too well-guarded or I couldn’t find a way onto a boat, I would have to go on foot. That meant heading north toward the forests of Karelia.

I was familiar with the terrain—dense pine forests, thick undergrowth, and cold rivers cutting through the land like veins. It would be slow going, grueling, but I could survive there indefinitely if I had to. I would steal supplies, move at night, and follow the same routes smugglers and defectors had taken in the past.

The trains were another option. Freight trains ran frequently from St. Petersburg to the Finnish border. If I could find an open car carrying logs or shipping containers, I could hide inside and ride it west.

If I was discovered? I would kill anyone who tried to take me back. I would rather die alone in the wilderness than live as Malinov’s prisoner.

If everything went right, I would be drifting into Finnish waters by sunrise, hiding among the islands, moving inland as soon as I saw an opportunity.

If everything went wrong?

Then I would run until my legs gave out, until my body collapsed from exhaustion or blood loss. Because I would never be owned. And if the Kremlin thought it could keep me, it was dead wrong.

Chapter twenty-six

Digital schematics of Malinov’s estate glowed from the surrounding screens, and blueprints were spread across the table alongside messages from Nik’s operatives on the ground.

He’d spent a fortune to ensure that his people—caterers, servers, bartenders, security personnel, and florists—were embedded inside Malinov’s estate in key positions for the night of the party, ensuring we had boots on the ground without drawing suspicion.

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