Page 69 of Mission Shift

A slow burn started in my chest, crawling up my throat like gasoline ready to ignite.

“To where?” I demanded.

Nik’s jaw flexed, tension rippling through him as he continued to work.

“That’s what I’m finding out,” he snapped.

Nik wasn’t just hacking—he was activating his entire network: a web of embedded informants, black-market smugglers, corrupt border agents, off-the-books mercenaries, and former intelligence officers who owed him favors. The kind of people who answered without hesitation, no matter the hour or the cost.

He fired off messages, and after a few minutes, his expression sharpened as he opened an email.

I arched my brow. “Who’s that message from?”

“Ares,” he muttered. “High-level hacker in Moscow. If anyone can dig up classified transport records, it’s him.”

I exhaled sharply. “Someone has to be talking about where they’re moving her.”

Nik smirked. “I’m already on it. I’ll tap diplomatic chatter too. The Russian higher-ups don’t like to move high-value prisoners without covering their asses politically.”

His fingers slammed against the keyboard as he started pulling real-time data from Russian military servers, scanning for any mention of prisoner transfers.

Neither of us spoke.

The only sound in the room was the rhythmic tapping of keys and the quiet hum of servers working in overdrive.

Nik didn’t look away from his screen, but after about an hour of this, his voice cut through the hum.

“Go shower, Thorin.”

I scowled. “What?”

“You smell like a goddamn corpse.” He finally glanced at me. “Get clean. Get a couple of hours of sleep. By the time you wakeup, I’ll have something. You’re no good to me—or Daria—like this.”

I started to argue, but the exhaustion hit me all at once, and his order brooked no argument.

I stood slowly, rolling my shoulders before heading out. He was right. The second we knew where Daria was—I had to be ready.

Chapter twenty-one

Oleg reached out and yanked the chain of my handcuffs, dragging me toward him with a violent jerk. My shackled ankles made it impossible for me to move quickly.

“Let’s go, suka,” he barked, moving behind me and pressing his meaty hand between my shoulder blades to shove me forward.

I straightened my spine, biting back a grimace at the sharp ache radiating through my ribs. I would not show weakness. Not here. Not now.

“Dr. Goryachov is looking forward to meeting you,” Oleg said.

A sick chill threaded through my veins.

Dr. Goryachov—or Dr. Gore, as he was known in the circles of Russia’s most sadistic and depraved Special Intelligence Forces.

He was not a doctor of healing. He was a specialist in breaking people.

The kind of man whose name sent even the most hardened killers into a cold sweat. The kind of man who thrived on psychological torment—the slow, methodical unraveling of a person’s mind—stripping them down layer by layer until nothing remained but obedience.

Oleg’s grip on my chain tightened as he dragged me toward the elevator. My father didn’t spare me another glance. The bastard didn’t need to. He knew exactly what he’d done.

The elevator doors slid open with a quiet chime, revealing a mirrored interior that reflected my bruised, battered face back at me. I stepped inside with Oleg and caught one last glimpse of my father reclining in his chair, swirling his drink, before the doors snapped closed.

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