Page 1 of Mission Shift

Chapter one

Blood always tells the truth, no matter how much you try to hide it. It stains, it holds secrets, it demands attention. I’ve seen it spill from bodies and tell dark stories no one wanted to be told. Tonight, in this godforsaken house, it nagged at me—mocking me with the same question over and over.

How the hell did I end up here?

One second, we’d been heading toward a remote village to distribute meals and food rations when, out of nowhere, gunfire had shredded the van, turning it into a cage of screaming metal and shattered glass. No—blood does not lie. Today, the air had been full of the tragic evidence of the men and women who’d been happily chatting one moment and then torn to shreds the next. Somehow, volunteering to sit on the floor of the van had left me mostly unscathed.

Blood had always been my companion—pooled on the pavement after a car crash, smeared across the floors of strangers’ homes, spread beneath the fluorescent chaos of hospital bays. It followed me, a constant reminder of the violence threaded through life. And now, it had dragged me to this place, to this night.

I lay sprawled on the sofa, caught in that restless space between sleep and wakefulness. The thick late August humidity clung to me like a second skin, plastering my shirt to my body as the stench of blood and sweat curled in my nose. Outside, the world lay silent, save for the low thump of distant artillery fire—a cruel reminder that the war raged just beyond and that the possibility of death wasn’t far off. The cladding that lined the outside of the home creaked in the stiff breeze, scratching against my already frayed nerves. Here inside this house, I was enveloped in darkness. I shifted, and the couch sagged beneath my weight. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once and then went silent.

My thoughts wouldn’t settle. My body was still vibrating from the shock of the ambush, refusing to let me relax.

Sleep whirled just out of reach. My mind kept circling back to how I’d ended up here, hiding in an abandoned house in the Ukrainian countryside. Atticus’s words echoed in my head:“You’re walking into a country that’s under siege! You know what happens to people who get caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, right, little brother?”

I should’ve stayed in Tacoma, stayed in my lane. But no, I had to chase some vague notion of finding my life’s purpose, of seeing the world beyond my comfortable bubble. Maybe he was right—this had been a dumb idea. Who in their right mind would sign up to tag along with a Russian mafia boss in the middle of an active war zone? But staying home hadn’t been an option. My life back there was too safe, my horizons too narrow. I’d wantedsomething more—something bigger. I’d wanted to see the world for what it really was, to understand the bigger picture of what was happening. Not just in Ukraine but everywhere.

I’d told myself this was about growth, about making a difference. Volunteering with the Global Food Outreach had seemed like a great choice, one that would be meaningful, even noble. And for over a month, it had been. I’d just begun to acclimate to my new surroundings, grappling with the jarring reality of war, which contrasted in a startling way to the safety I’d always known. The organization had been eager to have me join, not just as another set of hands to unload crates and distribute meals but also because I could act as a paramedic in the field.

Medical aid was scarce in the remote war-torn villages where we delivered food. Civilians injured in shellings, farmers caught in the crossfire, elderly residents too frail to flee—all of them needed medical attention, and too often, there was no one there to provide it. Having a paramedic embedded in the team meant injuries could be treated, volunteers were protected, and communities received more than just nourishment.

But when the van was attacked, my idealism had disintegrated in an instant. I could still hear the glass shattering and the driver screaming as shrapnel ripped through him. After I’d rolled out of the back, I’d taken off, running blindly through the streets of an unfamiliar town—not knowing if I’d make it out of the melee alive. I had escaped into the countryside, fleeing the unknown terror until the darkness of night made it impossible to continue.

And now, here I was, lying on this busted sofa in the middle of nowhere, not too far from the Russian border, wondering how I’d ended up in this mess. Maybe tagging along with Nik hadn’t been the best way to broaden my horizons. What had I been thinking when I’d boarded that plane out of JFK?

I’d felt safe because I was with a friend.

Calling Nik afrienddidn’t quite sit right, but I wasn’t sure what else to call him. Business associate? Reluctant guardian? Every time I’d tried to learn more about him and what he did, he’d deflected with that infuriating smirk.

Nik wasn’t just some Russian entrepreneur with an expensive wardrobe and a smooth demeanor. He was…more. Mafia boss. World-class hacker. Shadow broker. A man with lots of secrets and too much power.

Questions about his ties to the Volkovi Notchi were met with a quick change of subject. Anytime I probed into his dealings, it only earned me vague, veiled warnings. Last time I’d seen him, three days ago, he’d said,“There are some doors you don’t want to open, Brax.”His voice had been as calm as ever, but the menacing grimace on his face had made it clear: he was a man who didn’t take kindly to curiosity. Immediately after telling me this, he’d walked out of the home we shared in Kyiv, leaving me with little more than a shrug and a promise to return in a few days.

Now, as I lay here in the oppressive heat, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d gotten in way over my head. I shifted uncomfortably on the couch, causing dust to tickle my nose. The house’s stillness should’ve been calming, but it wasn’t. My body still hummed with leftover anxiety from the escape, and my muscles were wound tight despite the exhaustion weighing on every limb.

I exhaled and closed my eyes, willing myself to rest. But deep down, I knew that sleep wouldn’t come easily tonight. A storm was brewing.

WHAM!

The door slammed open with the force of a cannon blast, the noise reverberating through the deserted house. I was on my feet before my brain could process what was happening, my heart hammering against my ribs.

A figure loomed in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim moonlight. Her long, lean frame had the sleek lines of a lithe predator, the curve of her hips and the narrowness of her waist more fitting for a runway than a battlefield. She dragged something—no, someone—across the threshold. The man’s boots scraped against the wooden floor as she hauled him inside. His groans were barely audible over the roar of the pulse in my ears.

The woman moved with deadly precision despite her burden. Her fatigues were darkened with what appeared to be blood, though I couldn’t tell if it was hers or his. The light from outside caught her face as she turned, giving me a glimpse of sharp cheekbones, nervous eyes that seemed to cut right through me, and short blonde hair that stuck up in wild spikes.

She released her grip, letting the man drop to the floor with a dull thud. Our eyes met, and the air seemed to crystalize between us, heavy with an unspoken threat. She uttered no words, made no demands, just pinned me in place with her penetrating stare.

Then she moved.

Her pack hit the floor as she launched herself toward me from across the room. I barely had time to register her movement before she was on me; she had closed the distance with terrifying speed.

The woman’s fist connected with my jaw, sending a burst of pain through my skull. Instinct kicked in, and I dodged the next blow by a hair’s breadth. Her movements were calculatedand impossibly fast. Each strike was precise, as if she had been training for this kind of fight her entire life.

I managed to duck under a high kick aimed at my head, feeling the rush of air as it passed. She pivoted on her heel with the grace of a dancer, already prepping for the next assault. I caught another glimpse of her eyes—cold, calculating, and entirely focused.

Years of martial arts classes flooded back as her assault continued. I managed to evade a kick that would have crushed my trachea, but then I ate a jab to my cheek and stumbled back.

She moved like liquid mercury, each strike flowing seamlessly into the next. This wasn’t street fighting or gym sparring—this was in a league of its own. Her technique screamed professional training, a deadly cocktail of Krav Maga and military combat skills.

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