3. BRAXTON
Chapter three
T he soldiers stormed in, barking at me in Russian—commands or insults, I couldn’t tell. One of them, an asshole with a shaved head and a scar running down his cheek, grabbed me by the collar and yanked me forward. His breath reeked of cigarettes. The others fanned out, their eyes scanning the room, while the one holding me glared at me like he was deciding which part of me to break first. My stomach tightened, but I forced myself to stand tall.
“Hey,” I said, holding up my hands. “I’m just a medic.”
“American pig,” he snarled in English. Then he shoved me hard enough that I stumbled into the coffee table, knocking it over.
My instincts screamed at me to fight back, but I knew that would invite them to beat the hell out of me.
Before I could even blink, a fist slammed into my gut, driving the air from my lungs. I doubled over, but they didn’t give me time to recover. A second soldier, who was standing behind me, kicked the back of my knees, and they buckled. My palms hit the floor hard.
“Medic? You full of shit!” the first one shouted in broken English, yanking me back to my feet by the front of my shirt.
Another soldier laughed. A boot landed square on my thigh, deadening the muscle. My leg trembled but stayed under me. Their Russian taunts came rapid-fire, and although I couldn’t understand anything they said, it was clear they were enjoying this. I ground my teeth, forcing my face to remain impassive. No flinching. No reaction.
The woman marched through the door shouting and all the men’s heads snapped in her direction. Her presence commanded instant silence. She rattled off something in a harsh tone, and all I caught was the word “Putin,” which made my blood run cold.
The woman’s glare was cruel enough to flay skin. She continued shouting at the men, pointing at me. Her body language was confident, as if she was in charge here. Interesting.
A man, clearly some sort of leader, stepped into the doorway, his face twisted into a snarl. He waved the soldiers off, issuing a stern order to them. All the soldiers except the one with his fist in my shirt backed away.
As he dragged me toward the door, he made a point of slamming my face into the sharp edge of the frame. Pain burst across my brow, and warm blood trickled down into my eye. I clenched my jaw to keep from grunting in pain.
The woman immediately rounded on the man in charge, glowering and yelling something at him. Apparently, she didn’t want them to hurt me…for now.
The man growled out another order, waving the men toward the trucks.
They steered me to the back of the last vehicle, a pickup truck. Then I was pushed forward and patted down before my hands were zip-tied. As I climbed in, a rifle butt was slammed between my shoulder blades, knocking me forward. The metal bed of the truck was hard and unforgiving as I scrambled to sit upright.
From my position, I watched the Ice Queen climb into the passenger seat. I’d been an idiot to think she’d shown a hint of humanity while treating that soldier. My pulse raced as I glared at her through the window. She was terrifying, calculating. And now, she was my captor.
The engine roared to life, and the truck lurched forward, jostling me against the side. We had barely moved ten feet when the truck abruptly stopped, jerking me forward. I gripped the side for balance as all the trucks came to a halt. Within seconds, the woman climbed out of the cab and sprinted back toward the house.
I twisted in the bed of the truck to watch as she disappeared through the front door. My brow throbbed, and the gash dripped blood down the side of my face. I ignored it, too focused on what she was doing. Moments later, she emerged, carrying both her pack and mine.
She strode off the porch and crouched on one knee, reaching into her bag and pulling out a small metallic object. Her hands moved quickly as she manipulated it. My breath caught in my throat when I realized it was a military-grade explosive device. She armed it with practiced fingers and lobbed it through the front door without hesitation.
Standing, she snatched up our packs, turned, and strode back to the truck as if it were no big deal.
The house exploded behind her, the force rattling the truck bed beneath me. Orange flames erupted from every window, consuming the structure in seconds. Splintered wood and shattered glass rained down, the heat rolling out in waves. Black smoke billowed into the sky as support beams cracked and collapsed.
That soldier was still in there. He’d been dying already, yes, but now… Jesus Christ.
The blonde didn’t even glance back. She continued walking toward the truck with the same calm, detached demeanor she’d had since I met her, her face unreadable. She climbed into the cab, and the truck jolted forward, falling back in line with the others.
I stared at the inferno in our wake, my stomach churning. What kind of monster was she? What kind of hell had I landed myself in?
The truck bounced and rattled as we moved along over the uneven terrain, going who knew where. From the looks of it, we were on a tiny side road, probably to avoid prying eyes. The zip ties dug into my wrists, but at least my hands weren’t behind my back. Small mercies. The sun rose higher in the sky, its heat bearing down on me as sweat trickled down my back. I shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t make everything hurt.
My mind was replaying everything that had happened in that old farmhouse, all the way up to when she’d detonated those explosives without hesitation. The dying soldier inside…hadn’t she been trying to save him earlier? Working alongside me to patch him up? But the cold efficiency with which she’d blown the house up—and him with it—painted a different picture.
What kind of soldier blew up a house with one of their own men inside? My mind churned with questions. None of it added up.
Maybe she was sparing him a slow death instead of leaving him to bleed out slowly. That seemed almost…merciful, in a twisted way. But that didn’t quite fit her demeanor. When she’d stormed into that abandoned house, she’d been all business while trying to kick my ass. Maybe the act was more sinister, tied to the need to erase evidence.
She’d been annoyed when the Russian trucks had shown up. I’d caught a flash of…what? Anger? Fear?
Why?
The truck rattled beneath me as it hit another pothole. The bump sent pain shooting through my thigh where that soldier had landed a solid kick. I pressed my back against the metal bed, trying not to think about the ache. Blood had dried stiff along my brow, and it pulled at the skin.
How had the woman and the soldier gotten onto this side of the border in the first place? For that matter, how had this little party of Russians sneaked into Ukrainian territory and found us out in the middle of nowhere?
I’d met a lot of people in my years as a paramedic, but no one similar to the Ice Queen. Cold. Unfeeling. Brutal. She moved with precision, spoke with venom, and acted without hesitation. And yet, her voice had softened slightly when she’d spoken to the injured man. She’d been careful with him in a way that bordered on protective.
As much as I wanted to believe she was just another ruthless Russian soldier, her actions in that house didn’t line up with that. She’d been too on edge when the trucks pulled up, as if she hadn’t wanted them there. And why would she have grabbed both her pack and mine before blowing the place sky-high?
The truck jerked again, and I braced myself against the side. I shifted, the ridges of the bed digging into my spine. My head throbbed, and I couldn’t slow my buzzing mind.
The convoy couldn’t be far from the border now.
It didn’t make sense for them to be here, on Ukrainian soil, unless they were sneaking in for an off-the-books operation. Based on the information I’d read and the conversations I’d had since coming here, it was common for the Russians to pull this kind of stunt—slipping in for secret missions or sabotage. If the Ukrainian forces got wind of it, surely they’d attack with some sophisticated drone or missile. There’d be no questions asked, no time for me to explain that I wasn’t one of them. Just instant death.
The whole situation was a riddle that gnawed at me as we drove along, the truck rocking back and forth. Every scenario I could come up with made less sense than the last.
Crossing the border was no casual thing. I’d read enough to know that it was well-fortified—patrols, trenches, cameras, sensors, and drones. Both sides had boots on the ground and were constantly watching and waiting for any sign of trespassers. And yet, these trucks—big, noisy military vehicles—had made it in like it was nothing. That alone meant whoever had planned this mission had serious connections and knew exactly where the weak spots were.
What bothered me even more was the woman’s attitude about riding off with these guys. She hadn’t seemed worried at all—no nervous glances, no tension in her body language. If anything, she carried herself like someone who didn’t just expect to cross the border with no issues but had the authority to make it happen. It made no sense. Why would she not even flinch at the risk of getting caught? She acted as though she could flip a switch and make the danger disappear.
I replayed her reaction to the convoy arriving at the house. She hadn’t appeared pleased to see them. Yet she’d still taken control, as if she outranked everyone there. And they’d obeyed without question. Who the hell was she to have that level of respect?
A couple of hours maybe—after we started out, the terrain became rougher, giving way to denser woods, the trees forming a dark canopy overhead. The trucks slowed even more as the path narrowed. We had to be close to the border, or maybe we’d already crossed it. Either way, the trucks continued along as though they didn’t have a care in the world. The Ukrainians weren’t blind. Their soldiers, their drones—they didn’t miss much. So why were they turning a blind eye to this?
That was the real puzzle. And the Ice Queen wasn’t just confident—she was too confident, as if she was unafraid of the Ukrainians. Then, a thought hit me like a freight train. What if she was working both sides?
I stared at the tree limbs overhead, my mind turning everything over. The way she’d commanded those men, barking orders, the way their leader had all but shrunk under her glare… It wasn’t a matter of respecting her rank—it was fear. She was someone important, someone infamous, I’d bet. But if she was so high up, what had she been doing in that house? So much didn’t add up.
I shook my head, trying to clear away the questions. It didn’t matter. What mattered was surviving whatever hellhole they were taking me to. Still, I couldn’t ignore the possibility that the woman who’d commandeered this convoy might be more dangerous than the soldiers dragging me to God knew where.
She wasn’t just my captor. But was she protecting me? Using me? Or was she far more dangerous than I could even imagine? I rested my head against the back of the truck and closed my eyes, letting the vibrations of the engine hum through me.
Atticus’s words looped in my mind: “ Putin’s not just playing around. He’s kidnapping people and using them as bargaining chips. ” I had brushed him off, too drawn to the idea of adventure. He’d called me reckless. “You’re not just risking your life, Brax. You’re risking getting captured, tortured, God knows what. ”
That possibility clawed at me now. My chest tightened as I imagined all the creative horrors they would dream up for someone like me.
The heat pressed down on me, and the constant bouncing of the truck made me want to puke. I guessed it was good that I hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours. Exhaustion pulled at me despite the perilous, uncomfortable circumstances. Sleep came in shallow, restless stints.
The truck slammed to a halt, snapping me awake. My chest heaved as I shot upright, disoriented. A rifle butt cracked against my ribs, pain shooting through me. I gasped, my arms instinctively tightening against my body. The soldier shouted at me in Russian, grabbing me by the arm and yanking me out of the truck.
When my boots hit the ground, I stumbled, my heart pounding in my chest. Towering trees formed a dense canopy overhead, their shadows casting an ominous gloom all around. The forest was unnervingly quiet, the silence broken only by the distant commands of soldiers.
Up ahead, a building loomed, as foreboding as a sealed tomb. What was this place? The industrial framework suggested it might have been a storage facility or factory before the war. The walls were stained with grime, and the narrow windows, most of them cracked or boarded up, hinted at neglect. A tall, rusted chain-link fence fortified with barbed wire stretched around the perimeter except for a gated entrance we must have driven through while I was still asleep.
The soldier shoved me forward, and with each step, my future became more uncertain. The hinges on a large metal door groaned as it swung open, revealing a dim interior that felt as though it would swallow me whole. The air inside reeked of mold and urine. Somewhere deeper in the building, muffled cries echoed, sending a chill across my skin.