Page 2 of Mission Shift

Who the hell was this woman? She was too good—something dangerous.

With my forearm, I blocked a knee aimed at my ribs, gritting my teeth against the impact. The force behind it told me she was strong—stronger than most men. The way she fought, it was as if she’d been born doing this. I wasn’t able to land many countermoves. I’d trained with some tough guys back home—ex-military types and my brothers, who could hold their own—but she was different. Each movement was mindful and precise, with zero wasted energy. This wasn’t just survival for her; it was an art form.

All at once, she changed tactics, dropping low for a takedown. I countered, using her momentum against her, and managed to pin her briefly against the floor. But she was slippery as an eel. She twisted out of my grip and was back on her feet in seconds.

We separated, circling each other, the dim light casting menacing shadows around us. Both of us were breathing hard now, but neither backed down. Her gaze never left mine aswe moved. We were sizing each other up, waiting for the next opening.

Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. Instead, she lunged again, bombarding me with a flurry of punches that forced me back. I blocked as best I could, but each hit slammed into me, sending shocks through my body.

I needed to find an edge—a way to get through to her without getting myself killed in the process. She aimed another kick at my midsection; I caught it and twisted her leg. She hissed but used the momentum to spin around and bring her other leg up in a high arc toward my head.

The sole of her boot caught me right in the jaw, ringing my bell. She landed lightly on her feet, barely missing a beat.

Damn,she was relentless. We continued our deadly dance around the cramped living room, overturning furniture and kicking up dust. Despite the chaos, she carefully avoided stepping near her fallen comrade.

Her eyes darted around the house as she stalked me. Then she came at me with renewed ferocity, backing me down the hallway. When my back was against the wall, she went low again for another takedown attempt, feinting left before shooting right at the last second. I managed to catch on just in time to counter it, but not without losing ground.

Our bodies collided against the wall. She took advantage by driving a punch into my side while pressing herself close enough that escape seemed impossible for either of us. We were now entangled so tightly that we struggled to breathe.

In that split second when I locked eyes with this devastatingly lethal masterpiece of untamed beauty—mine searching to understand, hers hardened in resolve—I knew one thing with absolute clarity: she wasn’t the kind of woman a man walked away from unscathed. She fought like a demon, looked like a damn dream, and if I had any sense, I’d focus on survival insteadof how much I wanted to pin her down for entirely different reasons. Whether I made it out of this fight or not, I was already a goner. She wasn’t just dangerous—she was the kind of trouble men lost themselves in.

The injured man’s moan cut through the haze of adrenaline and tension. I glanced at him and saw the telltale signs of a Russian uniform. Blood seeped from his belly and pooled on the floorboards.

“Shit,” I muttered under my breath, then glanced back at the woman in front of me, who was still poised to strike. My paramedic training kicked in automatically, and I began assessing his condition from where I stood. The wounds looked serious. He needed immediate attention. I raised my hands slowly, palms out. “I’m not your enemy!” My voice came out hoarse from exertion. I gestured zealously to my upper arm, where a red patch with a white cross was sewn onto the sleeve.

Her eyes darted to the patch, her face contorting in a mix of disgust and confusion at what I guessed was my American accent. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, enough time for me to point at the injured man on the floor.

“He needs help,” I said emphatically, trying to convey my intent with my tone if she didn’t understand the words I was saying. Her lips pressed into a tight line as she glared at me, suspicion flaring in those icy blues. She didn’t lower her guard, but her stance shifted slightly.

Then she nodded toward my medic’s backpack, which was on the floor by the sofa, motioning for me to move slowly. I exhaled in relief but kept my movements deliberate and careful. One wrong move, and she’d strike like a viper.

I slowly sidestepped over to pick up my pack and then crouched down by the soldier. I unzipped the bag as nonthreateningly as possible and rifled through the haphazard mix of medical supplies and personal effects. First I pulled outa roll of pressure bandages and hemostatic gauze, then grabbed antiseptic wipes to clean the wound.

“I guess I’ll have to make do,” I muttered under my breath. The tension in the room was palpable as I began working on the injured man—his wound was big enough for me to stick my fist in.

She hovered nearby, her gaze never leaving me. Every move I made was scrutinized, as if she expected me to pull out a weapon any second.

He had a gunshot wound to the abdomen. Bad. Very bad. As I pulled his shirt aside, his face twisted in pain, his eyes glazed and unfocused. The amount of blood loss and the location of the wound made my gut clench.

The woman prowled behind me, ready to pounce if I tried anything. Her eyes bored into me as I reached for my pack again. Before I could grab it, she snatched it up in one fluid motion and rummaged through the contents. Finding no weapons, she handed it back. Though she was clearly wary, there was also a hint of desperation in her eyes. She gestured impatiently for me to get started, then sank to her knees beside me. Without a word, she began pulling out supplies from my pack.

She took a piece of gauze and pressed down on a deep cut in his arm, stemming the flow of blood before wrapping the wound snugly. For the next few minutes, she worked alongside me to tend to the man, seeming to know exactly what to do.

Maybeshe was some kind of field medic?

The soldier’s pulse fluttered weakly under my fingers as I worked. Blood was seeping through the bandages faster than I could pack the wound. The injury was extensive—he likely had damage to multiple organs.

His eyes peeled open, meeting mine. He was young, too young to be caught up in this mess. I offered him a small smile, trying to convey some semblance of comfort. “You’re going to be okay,”I lied, speaking in a comforting voice despite the turmoil inside me.

The woman watched me as though she was still trying to figure out if I was a threat or not. I couldn’t blame her. In this world of chaos and war, trust was a rare commodity.

“Even if we were in the best ED with a fully equipped trauma team, I don’t think we could save him,” I muttered, the words slipping out before I could stop them. I glanced at the woman, but her face was a void. If she understood me, she gave no sign.

While we worked together, a strange sense of connection formed between us—one forged out of necessity. Despite our initial clash and mutual distrust, we had become an unspoken team with one goal: to save this man’s life.

But deep down, I knew it wasn’t going to be enough. We were fighting a losing battle against time and circumstance.

Her silence spoke volumes, but it also left me with more questions than answers about who she really was beneath that tough exterior.

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