Mission Shift (Broken Heroes #1)

1. BRAXTON

Chapter one

B lood 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 wanted something 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 a friend didn’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 calculated and 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.

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 as we 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 instead of 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 out a 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.

Maybe she 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.

After we’d stabilized the soldier, I stood and wiped my hands on my pants, trying to shake off the sense of futility. His pulse was so weak. He was patched up as best as I could manage. Not great, but it was better than bleeding out on the floor.

I moved to the kitchen to clean up.

The ancient tap groaned and sputtered before releasing a weak stream of water, barely enough to rinse the blood from my hands.

Behind me, footsteps scraped softly against the floor. I glanced over my shoulder to see the woman standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. Turning off the water, I turned fully to face her, curling my fingers around the edge of the counter as I leaned back, trying to look more casual than I felt. The first rays of dawn streamed through the kitchen window, illuminating her so I could see her more clearly. She swiped an antiseptic wipe over her fingers as she studied me. Her tall, sleek form and commanding presence drew my gaze, and I found myself unable to look away.

She didn’t say a word, just continued wiping her hands. My chest tightened under her scrutiny. Her eyes were locked on me, her brow slightly pinched, lips pressed into a thin line. Her stare was cool and calculating, as if she were deciding whether I was worth the trouble or better left in a shallow grave out back.

My gaze dropped, traitorously tracing the length of her legs again. Long, lean, powerful. The kind of legs that could run a marathon or— fuck —lock around my hips and keep me there until I begged for mercy. Jesus Christ. Blood and chaos all around, and here I was with my body betraying me for the very woman who’d stormed in, fists flying and ready to kill me an hour ago.

Her lips curved into a small smile, as if she’d cracked the code of my thoughts and was more amused than offended. That smirk hit me, and I felt like a damn fool.

She tossed the wipe onto the counter with a flick of her wrist, then crossed her arms over her chest as she leaned against the doorframe. But she still didn’t speak. Didn’t have to. That smug little look said everything: Whatever’s running through your head, I know it’s filthy.

“So, this is awkward,” I said, forcing a laugh that sounded hollow even to my own ears. “I’m an American paramedic stuck in a Ukrainian war zone with a Russian soldier and—well, you. Whoever the hell you are.” I gestured vaguely in her direction. The silence that followed was unnerving. She might as well have been carved from stone for all the reaction she gave.

I scrubbed a hand over my chin, studying her. “You don’t talk much, huh? Guess that’s fine. Probably better. Less chance of us disagreeing.”

She remained silent, her expression unreadable. Did she even understand English? Her eyes were icy, but they didn’t seem uncomprehending. Still, the way she stared through me—as if she’d already dismissed me—irked the hell out of me. Maybe she understood every word and just didn’t care—like the Kremlin didn’t care how many were dying every day in this fucking war. Frustration simmered beneath my skin, tangled with exhaustion and the sickening images I couldn’t shake from my mind. All at once, my anger became too much to hold in.

Then words started spilling out before I could stop them, a bitter rant fueled by all the anguish I’d seen since arriving in Ukraine. “This war—this devastation—it’s madness, you know? Families ripped apart, children missing limbs, so many good people slain.” I started to pace.

“This isn’t a war,” I continued, unable to stop myself. “It’s just rich men using people as pawns. All for what? More power? Because they want to rape the Ukrainian land for rare earth minerals? Some dictator’s vanity? It’s bullshit.”

Her lips twitched subtly, but she quickly schooled her features back into that stoic mask—so quickly, I almost missed it.

As I continued to talk, sharing more random thoughts about the war, I couldn’t help but notice her high cheekbones, the fullness of her lips, the way her sharp pixie cut framed her face, and the strength in her posture. She was tall for a woman—nearly my height, and I was six-two. She had an athletic build that suggested both power and grace.

I mentally kicked myself. Focus, Braxton. She’s not the girl next door. She’s a lethal Russian soldier who just tried to kill you .

But damn, if she wasn’t captivating in a way that unsettled me more than it should have.

I followed her into the living room, watching as she peeked outside the front door, which was still standing wide open. What was she thinking? What was driving her? What lay beneath that hostile exterior?

We were uneasy allies in this abandoned refuge, bound together by necessity and circumstance. Fear and curiosity hung in the air between us, tangled with an unnamed tension simmering beneath it all.

She closed the door and turned to face me, pressing her back against it before motioning toward the sofa with a jerk of her chin.

Stepping back to the spot where I’d been lying when she came crashing in, I sank onto the worn cushions, my muscles aching from our earlier fight. The reality of my situation hit like a punch to the gut. What the hell had I gotten myself into? This wasn’t just a humanitarian mission anymore.

My thoughts raced to darker possibilities. She probably had backup searching for her, soldiers who wouldn’t think twice about eliminating an American.

I needed an exit strategy. Fast. Before she decided I was a liability she didn’t have time for.

The wounded soldier’s labored breathing filled the silence, punctuated by his occasional whimpers of pain. I glanced up, watching her eyes flick to the man lying by the door. Exhaustion had etched lines into her face, and for a fleeting second, I caught something like regret darkening her gaze.

She pushed off the door, moving from window to window, scanning our surroundings. The old floor creaked under her weight, making my nerves jump.

My heart wouldn’t stop racing as despair settled in. How had my attempt to see the world landed me here, trapped between a dying soldier and his terrifying companion?