Page 130 of Mission Shift

“You think my work isn’t important? Or worth risking my life when others won’t?” I pressed, stepping closer to him. “Then explain this. Why does your country barely talk about the over twenty thousand Ukrainian children taken by force—shipped to Siberia, their names erased, their families slaughtered?”

My throat tightened, but I pushed through.

“Why doesn’t anyone talk about how those children will never be found? How they’ll be beaten, reprogrammed, told they were never Ukrainian to begin with—turned into laborers, soldiers, propaganda fodder? Slaves?”

Braxton’s lips parted like he wanted to say something, but no words came out.

“Or maybe we should talk about the war crimes your media conveniently ignores. Or the fact that the International Criminal Court in The Hague has issued an arrest warrant for Putin. Not rumors. Not speculation. A real legal action—for war crimes.”

I kept going. “What about the mass graves? Civilian executions? Torture camps?” I stepped close enough to see the pulse in Braxton’s throat. “The rape ordered by Russian commanders and cheered on by their wives back home?”

His breath caught. His hands clenched into fists.

The truth was finally breaking through to him.

“Russian soldiers don’t just kill,” I hissed. “They desecrate. They humiliate. They turn women’s and young girls’ last moments into a spectacle of pain. And your country? Your so-called beacon ofdemocracy?” I spat the word. “It wrings itshands, holds another pointless press conference, and then does nothing.”

Braxton’s chest rose and fell with a sharp breath. He hadn’t moved an inch, but his entire body had tensed like a wire pulled tight.

“But I guess that shouldn’t surprise me,” I went on. “Because your country—the same one that once fought against Russian tyranny—is now on its knees for it.”

His brows drew together instantly. “That’s not true—”

“Isn’t it?” I cut in. “Tell me, where is the America that stood against communism? Where is the country that demanded, ‘Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall?’and forced the Soviet Union into collapse? Where is the country that used to understand that democracy is only as strong as its people’s willingness to fight for it?”

I shook my head slowly, disgust curling inside me. “Now, the same political party that once called Russia the enemy is licking the boots of a dictator. The same men who preached about the evils of fascism parrot whatever Putin tells them to say.” My eyes bored into his. “They let him interfere in your elections. They flood your social media with Kremlin lies. They let Putin buy them—because that’s all it takes. A little kompromat, a little blood money, and suddenly the strongest democracy in the world is nothing but a puppet regime with a Russian hand up its spine.”

Braxton exhaled hard, his expression darkening. “Not all of us—”

“Then where the fuck are those people?” I snapped. “Where are the Americans willing to stand up to this? I don’t see too many of them in Ukraine like you.”

I stared at him, at the man who’d fought to save me, the man who’d offered me a new identity like it was a gift.

He didn’t speak.

What was he supposed to say?

There were no good answers, and the truth was, there wasn’t anything to gain by venting my frustration out on Braxton, but I desperately wanted him to understand how I and many others around the world saw his country and why his assumption that I would be overjoyed by receiving a new American identity couldn’t have been more off-base—because it erasedme.

He’d thought I would be grateful. He’d thought I would want a clean slate in his country. But what he didn’t understand—what he needed to understand—was that people like me didn’t get clean slates.

For a long moment, Braxton stood there, stoically watching me. I was sure he didn’t want it to be this way—none of the good and righteous ever did—but denial was a luxury only the ignorant could afford. And Braxton? He wasn’t ignorant.

I took a breath, steadying myself. I didn’t want to hurt him, but I had to be honest about my feelings. We were now entangled in a way I could have never imagined.

“You know what makes Russian politicians more cunning than American ones?” I asked. “They don’t pretend. They don’t feed their people fairy tales about freedom. Russians know they can’t own their homes or their land—none of it—because, in a communist state that’s fallen into fascism, the government owns everything. Sure, the oligarchs think they own their multibillion ruble estates, but the bottom line is that, with a sweep of a powerful politician’s pen, it’s gone.”

Braxton listened intently. I could tell he cared and wanted to hear me out; he was always one to listen patiently. I took another slow, deliberate step toward him.

“In Russia, owning a gun takes more than a background check. It’s tests, medical evaluations, and government interviews. Americans scream about their freedoms being taken, but they have no idea what real control by astrongmanlooks like.”

I stepped even closer. “Your country still thinks wars are won with missiles and alliances. But that’s not how Russia plays anymore. They don’t need bombs. They use misinformation, pay politically biased news channels to say exactly what they want over and over until people believe it.”

His brow creased, but still he remained silent.

“You think America’s unraveling is some kind of accident?” I asked. “It’s not. The chaos, the division—that’s the Kremlin’s strategy. Seed the lies, inflame the fear, and make you hate each other enough to do the job for them.”

Braxton shifted his stance. The tension in his shoulders was obvious.

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