Page 16 of Mission Shift

I didn’t move. Playing the hostage meant I didn’t help him. He should’ve known that.

Instead of repeating himself, he released the arm around my throat and spun me with brutal force, slamming my chest into the wall beside the door. In one smooth motion, he yanked my right arm up behind my back—high enough to hurt, but not enough to dislocate. He pulled the gun from my ribs for a split second to hit the lever with the back of his knuckles and shoulder the door open.

He paused, leaning out to scan the exterior.

“I don’t see anyone,” he muttered under his breath.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him block the door open with his foot.

For a fleeting moment, I thought things might actually go smoothly—after all, we hadn’t met any guards in the hallways.

Instead of returning the gun to my ribs, he suddenly shoved me hard against the wall, pinning my arm with his own—the butt of the gun digging into my back. His other hand had justreleased my wrist when the cold steel of a handcuff snapped around it.

I froze. What the fuck? He had cuffed me to him!

He pulled back a little and repositioned the gun back to my ribs as his big hand gripped my forearm and maneuvered me through the door.

Leaning in, I hissed at him in Russian, calling him an idiot. I clenched my teeth and tugged on the chain between us to emphasize my point. This was going to slow us down.

He ignored me, stabbing me harder with the gun, as if that made him the one in charge. I couldn’t believe he’d done it. My irritation burned beneath the surface, but I kept my face neutral; the cameras were still watching. I couldn’t afford to throttle him yet.

This was supposed to be simple. Play the hostage, lead the way out, save us both. Now I was tethered to a Boy Scout who thought he was running the show.

We descended the steps from the side door, the gun jabbing into me with each step he took. I adjusted my pace subtly, making it seem like he was in charge while continuing to steer him where I needed him to go.

I tugged him forward, guiding us through the parking area. Trucks and military vehicles loomed around us, their hulking shadows giving me just enough cover to work with.

My eyes darted toward the front gate, several rows of vehicles away. The single guard stationed in the shack ahead was the only thing standing between us and freedom. Good. I could handle one guard, but I wasn’t so sure about the man I was chained to.

We moved into a tight space between two trucks—passing momentarily out of view from the shack and the prying eyes of the cameras. It was then I decided enough was enough. I wasn’t about to let this amateur keep a gun at my back any longer. Thepossibility of him shooting me if things went wrong was not a risk I was willing to take.

Without breaking stride, I spun around and wrenched the gun out of his hand before he could react. Thorin stumbled back, his brows shooting up in surprise.

“Well fuck me,” he muttered, blinking as if trying to process what had just happened.

I rolled my eyes, holding the gun tightly to my side.

Before Thorin could make a move against me, I darted to his side, seizing his arm and twisting it behind his back, leaving him off-balance and at my mercy. His grunt of discomfort was satisfying, but I didn’t linger on it. I pressed the barrel of the gun against his ribs and shoved him forward.

I hissed out an order for him to move, steering us toward the guard shack. Despite the language barrier, Thorin obeyed, his steps quickening. The shack was barely visible in the darkness, its outline blending into the night. A dim glow from inside leaked through the blacked-out windows, allowing me to see that the guard was still oblivious to what was happening.

We were close now. Every muscle in my body was primed for action. One mistake, one hesitation, and this whole plan would fall apart.

But there wouldn’t be any mistakes. Not on my watch.

When we were a few paces from the shack, I stopped abruptly, tightening my grip on Thorin’s arm and yanking him to a halt. The chain between us rattled. I loudly barked out an order. “Hey, you! Get out here, now!”

The guard partially emerged, his silhouette backlit by the illumination coming from inside the shack. He was young—barely more than a boy. He was resting his hand on his firearm when he should have been aiming the gun at us, with his finger on the trigger, at the ready.

“Halt! What are you doing?” he asked nervously, jutting out his chin, clearly trying to put on a good front and appear authoritative. His hand fumbled at his side, and he sloppily pulled a Makarov PM from its holster. It was a standard-issue pistol, compact and reliable, but his grip was unsteady. The safety was still engaged.

I tightened my fingers on Thorin’s arm, digging them into his skin and cranking it higher up his back, just enough to make him grunt.

“Stand down and give me the keys to the UAZ,” I barked, gesturing to a vehicle sitting just off to the side of the shack.

The guard hesitated, his eyes darting from me to Thorin and back. Suspicion flashed across his face, but he didn’t move.

Thorin, for his part, remained still and quiet, listening to the exchange of Russian.

---