Page 15 of Mission Shift

I pointed to Thorin’s face, where the cut over his eye had reopened and leaked blood down his cheek. “Are you serious? How am I supposed to present him to the president with bruises and cuts like that?!”

Fedorov’s face paled further, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to form a defense. I didn’t let him speak. “President Putin personally ordered me to deliver him tomorrow for a propaganda campaign! Do you want to explain to me why he looks like shit?!”

I slammed my hand onto the table, scattering more papers onto the floor. The guards jumped at the sound, their eyes flicking from me to the scattered papers.

“How can you be such fucking screwups? Get out before I make you regret ever being born!” If they lingered another second, I wouldn’t be able to control my anger any longer.

Fedorov and his lackey all but tripped over themselves as they hurried toward the door and mumbled apologies.

I had to move fast. The camera in the upper corner of the room blinked steadily, watching and recording. There were enough working cameras throughout the prison that anyone watchingthis live might be able to piece things together. If I wanted to pull this off, I needed to sell it. Every move and reaction had to scream authenticity.

Thorin stood near the table, his chest rising and falling with harsh breaths as he glared at the retreating backs of the two guards. A bead of sweat traced a line down his temple, disappearing into the stubble along his jaw. His broad shoulders were rigid, every muscle taut like a bowstring, ready to snap. His hands hovered by his sides, fingers curling and uncurling, as if itching to grab something—or someone. He didn’t glance my way, and no part of him moved except for the slight muscle jerking in his forearm, a betrayal of the storm brewing inside him. He didn’t know the plan and couldn’t have guessed that I was orchestrating his escape. He had no idea that the next few moments would determine whether or not we both walked out of this place alive.

I stepped between him and the open door, blocking his most obvious exit. Deliberately, I crouched down with my back hip turned toward him, to pick up the papers I’d scattered earlier. The Glock sat there, unclipped, within easy reach—the perfect bait.

Come on, Mr. Boy Scout, I’m giving you every opportunity. Don’t be a pussy. Take the gun.

Seconds stretched like hours as I stayed bent over longer than necessary, my hands shuffling the papers into a loose stack.

What are you waiting for? Me tohandyou the gun?

I started to stand, suppressing a groan of exasperation. He wasn’t going to do it. What a wuss.

Wiggling my hips slightly, I made the Glock even more accessible.

For fuck’s sake. Take the gun.

Finally, I felt it—the distinct sensation of the weight of the weapon disappearing from its holster. My heart kicked up—not with fear, but with relief.About damn time.

His arm locked around my throat like a steel band, pulling me back against him. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he said in his American drawl. He shoved the barrel of the Glock into my ribs with enough force to make me wince.

The safety clicked off.

Oh, he had balls after all.

Thorin wasn’t gentle—his grip was firm, his movements aggressive. It was exactly what I needed. He had no idea he was playing right into my hands, but I had to give him credit. Most men couldn’t manhandle me like this.

He forced me toward the door, his forearm cutting into my throat. I stumbled, pretending to struggle, gasping out loudly for the benefit of anyone watching via the cameras. In Russian, I shouted for him to let me go. I yanked down on his arm in a dramatic fashion that, in reality, didn’t have much force to it.

“Shut up!” he barked, pushing me forward.

I continued to make a show of resisting, thrashing just enough for it to look convincing, but not enough to actually fight him. He held firm, his strength surprising me. A flicker of respect sparked in the back of my mind, quickly chased by an unfamiliar feeling I couldn’t afford to focus on.

Thorin maneuvered me out of the holding room and into the hallway. His grasp didn’t falter, and the gun stayed firmly lodged in my ribs. He moved quickly, keeping my body anchored to his. His fingers were twisted tightly in the fabric of my shirt, and he used the grip to control my movements. His instincts were better than I’d expected.

Good. This was working.

As we made our way through the corridors, I subtly adjusted our path, tilting my weight just enough to steer him without himrealizing it. The door we needed, the one leading outside, was just up ahead.

“Where’s the way out?” he demanded.

In Russian, I shouted back a response, telling him that he was crazy if he thought he was getting out of here alive, keeping up my act and deliberately stumbling.

“Shut up and move,” he growled, tightening his grip and shoving me harder. I jerked dramatically beneath the arm he had wrapped around my throat, earning me a knee in the back just as we passed beneath another camera. It was pointed straight at us. Perfect.

We reached the door. Thorin hesitated for half a second, glancing back down the hallway, then leaned in closer.

“Open it,” he ordered.

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