5. DARIA
Chapter five
T he room I was assigned to stay in was exactly what I’d expected—bare-bones and bleak. The cot sagged in the middle, its mattress so thin it might as well have been a towel stretched over springs. A metal nightstand missing its drawer sat beside it. The air carried a musty scent. At least there was a bathroom—or what passed for one. It was just a tiny, separate area that housed a shower stall, a sink, and a toilet. Typical visitor’s quarters in a makeshift Russian prison near the Ukrainian border.
I dropped my backpack onto the cot and stretched my neck, tension twining through my shoulders. My thoughts immediately went to the American, whom I’d just witnessed being dragged down the hallway somewhere. The guards here were bored, bitter men with nothing better to do than torment detainees. To them, torture wasn’t a tool for extracting information; it was a sport.
I couldn’t leave him in their hands for long, regardless of what my orders to Taranov had been. I didn’t trust him or his men.
Sitting down on the edge of the cot, I unzipped my pack and pulled out his bag—a bulky, American-style backpack. I had stuffed it inside of mine after driving off from that godforsaken house. His fate was tied to mine now, no question about it. Leaving him here wasn’t an option. Putin would see him as a prize, a bargaining chip with which to extort the US, all the while subjecting him to unspeakable horrors.
The risk of saving him was immense. If they even suspected what I was doing…
No. I couldn’t think about that now.
Unzipping his pack, I rifled through its contents quickly. The first thing I pulled out was his passport. My Boy Scout’s name was Braxton Wyatt Thorin. In the picture, he was clean-cut, and his mouth curved into the kind of smile Americans seemed to specialize in—movie-star perfection. Hmm, he was from Tacoma, Washington—a no-fuss, salt-of-the-earth kind of place. It suited him: solid, reliable, all-American.
Setting the passport aside, I dug out his wallet and flipped it open. Its leather was soft and worn from use. His paramedic license and NREMT card were front and center, both official and neatly laminated, along with his Global Food Outreach Volunteer ID. It was all there, staring me in the face, proof that everything he’d told me in that house was true. I scanned his driver’s license—full name, address, date of birth…
October 7.
My breath hitched.
That was my mother’s birthday.
I sat there, staring at the numbers. It was such a strange coincidence. A sign? I didn’t believe in signs. Signs were for people who believed in fate and fairy tales. But still…
I pushed past the thought and continued searching his wallet.
It held nothing sentimental—no photos, no notes, nothing personal beyond the essentials. Odd for an American. They had a habit of being nostalgic.
Flipping through the rest of his things, I found insurance cards, a mix of cash in dollars and hryvnia, and a couple of receipts. Nothing unexpected, just the mundane stuff of a man who had lived a life in a country that was mostly safe and not always on the edge of a war. This was the kind of man who carried all his identification and personal effects in one place because he’d never had to worry about getting pickpocketed or mugged. For someone like me, raised to trust no one, to guard everything, it was almost laughable. But with him, it wasn’t naivete—it was a quiet faith in humanity.
I picked up his phone next. The screen came to life immediately—shit. It was still on. Stupid. I should have checked this on the drive over here. Carrying around a live phone in hostile territory was practically begging to be tracked. I squeezed the buttons on either side, and before swiping to power it down, I made sure his GPS was turned off. Then I tossed it back into the bag.
This guy was so out of his element it hurt. What kind of person carried all their identification and personal effects in a single bag near a war zone? Yet, here he was, alive. He had enough grit to have survived until now. I wasn’t sure if I admired him or felt sorry for him.
I couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d shifted from being my adversary into something else, revealing a different side of himself. I was impressed with the way he had taken my blows, refused to back down, and then—at the sound of Zelenko’s pain —transformed. His instinct wasn’t to fight but to heal, to bring comfort even when someone was trying to kill him. He’d looked at Zelenko with such calm, told him he’d be okay even though he had to have known the truth. In his eyes there had been genuine compassion. Those kinds of eyes didn’t belong to liars or cowards. They were the kind of eyes someone could hold on to in their darkest moments. That kind of human decency was foreign to me. It was a quality I’d never witnessed in the cold, calculated men who had shaped my life—the Bratva, the Kremlin. It made him dangerous because it drew me to him. He was an American, a man risking his life to help in a war that wasn’t his and believing he’d be safe. And that trust in the better angels of our nature was my undoing. And now, for reasons I couldn’t fully explain, I was willing to risk everything to help him. If I hadn’t felt compelled to act before, the decision was now clear. Letting him die here wasn’t a part of the mission I’d chosen—it was unthinkable. My fate was sealed.
The mattress creaked under me as I stood. I began to pace the small room. Exhaustion pressed against me, but I couldn’t afford to take even a moment’s break. The sky had darkened, and that darkness was my only ally. The guards wouldn’t wait forever before turning their attention to him again. Whatever plan I came up with, it had to work. There wasn’t any room for failure, not when the stakes were this high.
Braxton Wyatt Thorin. Paramedic. Volunteer. Stray dog.
Was mine to protect.
A plan started to come together in my mind. I tried to ignore the hunger in my belly and the grime and blood I was coated in. No matter how much I wanted a shower, it would have to wait. Showers didn’t save lives, and they definitely didn’t arm you against the possibility of being exposed. What I needed now were weapons, and fast.
I hated being in large, unfamiliar buildings like this one. Every hallway, every locked door made me feel blind and paranoid—two things that could get me killed in an instant. There was no time for distractions. I needed to move, find the supply room, and get out of this godforsaken place before my luck ran out.
The supply room was dusty and disheveled, the kind of disorganized chaos typical of the Russian military . The supply chief, a wiry older man with a crooked nose and yellowed teeth, sat behind a battered desk, chewing on a toothpick. I was willing to bet his demeanor was every bit as sour as his appearance.
He didn’t even bother to stand when I entered. His beady eyes flicked up briefly, then returned to the stack of papers in front of him.
“What do you want?” he grunted.
I stepped forward, planting my hands behind my back. “Lieutenant Colonel Daria Melnichenko,” I said, my tone cold enough to freeze vodka. “FSB Special Intelligence Division. I need a firearm, a functional blade, and a fresh set of fatigues. Field-grade.”
The toothpick stopped mid-chew. The man’s lips twisted into a smirk. “Field-grade? For you?” His eyes raked over me, and I caught the flare of disdain within them. “We don’t stock women’s sizes.”
I leaned in closer, lowering my voice. “Do you think this is a negotiation, Chief? I need a men’s shirt, size forty-eight, height category four. Pants, size forty-eight, height range one eighty-two to one eighty-eight. Two black T-shirts, standard issue. And socks—cotton or wool, doesn’t matter. Just clean.”
He chuckled, a grating sound that got on my last nerve. “We don’t have much here, Comrade. This is a prison, not a palace. But I’ll see what we have.”
His arrogance was as predictable as it was irritating. “I’m not here for excuses. I’m here for weapons. The highest quality firearm on this base, a proper blade, and fatigues that fit,” I said, my tone growing colder. “Now.”
He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “You’ll take what I give you.”
I didn’t bother with words. Reaching across the desk, I grabbed the toothpick from his mouth and snapped it in half. His smug expression faltered as I tossed the pieces onto the desk.
“You’re trying my patience.” I leaned in closer until we were only a couple of inches apart, then grabbed his shirt collar and pulled him toward me. “And I’m not known for my patience.”
The supply chief jumped up, breaking away from my grasp, his chair scraping against the floor. “You think you can just walk in here—”
“I don’t think you understand who you’re dealing with.” I placed both hands on the desk. “Lieutenant Colonel Daria Melnichenko. FSB Special Intelligence,” I repeated, spitting out each word while pinning him with a glare. “I could have you digging coal with a single phone call, and trust me, I’d barely break a sweat doing it. The only reason you’re still breathing is that I haven’t decided you’re in my way. Yet.”
He stared at me and, without a word, picked up the phone on his desk and dialed. A heated exchange with Taranov followed. I didn’t need to hear both sides to know what was happening. Taranov’s barking orders carried through the receiver, and the supply chief’s face turned pale.
“Yes, sir. Understood,” he mumbled, hanging up the phone.
He turned back to me, his demeanor suddenly respectful. “I’ll get what you asked for, Lieutenant Colonel. Please, wait a moment.”
“Good decision,” I said, stepping back and crossing my arms.
The chief rummaged through the shelves with newfound urgency. After a few minutes, he returned with a Glock 19 Gen 5 MOS. And surprisingly, it was pristine, clearly maintained with care, and equipped with a suppressor and a red-dot optic mounted on the slide for precision. He set it on the desk along with a couple of magazines, followed by a sturdy NR-43 combat knife with a matte-black finish. I examined the single-edged blade and solid grip. It wasn’t flashy, but this knife would meet my needs.
“Now for the fatigues and other things,” he said, rushing to another area of the room. He came back with a stack of clothing, including a set of black fatigues and a tactical belt. He sat them on a table next to his desk.
“You forgot something,” I said, tapping the desk. “I need an access ID.”
“Yes, of course,” he stammered, fumbling through a drawer. He pulled out a blank card, shoved it in a small printer, and typed rapidly on his computer. After a moment, the printer whirred to life, spitting out a temporary card he then fed into a laminator. The result was crude but functional—a scannable access ID with the facility’s emblem displayed on the top and my name and rank printed underneath.
While he finished the paperwork, I examined the Glock. The suppressor and optic, while excellent for precision work, made holstering impossible. I decided to detach both and set them aside for now.
Next, I grabbed the tactical belt and wrapped it around my waist. I fastened the buckle and adjusted the fit until it sat snugly on my hips. Once the belt was secure, I attached the holster, sliding it into position at just the right angle.
With the belt and holster in place, I organized the remaining gear, then picked up the Glock again, testing the weight of it in my hand, appreciating its balance—solid and reliable, just how I liked it.
I grabbed the magazines from the desk and checked them, inspecting the rounds inside. Fifteen in each. That would do.
I inserted one magazine into the Glock, locking it in place. A smooth pull of the slide chambered a round. The compact gun fit perfectly in the holster, the retention system locking the weapon in place with a reassuring click. I secured the spare magazine on my belt and gave the gear one final check. Everything was ready.
The chief finished preparing the ID and handed it over. I clipped the card to my belt, ensuring it was positioned for easy scanning.
“Anything else?” he asked, as if he hoped I’d say no.
“Yes,” I said, leaning forward. “I need some information.”
His eyes widened slightly, and he swallowed hard. “What kind of information?”
I rapped my fingers on the desk. “It seems this facility wasn’t originally designed to function as a prison. So I’m wondering, specifically, where it’s weakest. Vulnerable points. Places people don’t watch as closely as they should.”
He hesitated, his gaze darting to the side. “Lieutenant Colonel,” he began carefully, “this prison is secure. It was built to—”
I raised my hand. “Don’t waste my time with lies. Every system has cracks. Every building has weaknesses. I’m not asking if they exist—I’m asking where . It’s part of my job to review security wherever I go.” I cleared my throat and cocked my head to the side, narrowing my eyes at him. “You’ll answer me, or I’ll start questioning why you’re being evasive.”
That did the trick. He shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. “The loading bay,” he admitted reluctantly. “It’s in the back of the building. Trucks come and go with supplies, and security’s…less rigid there.”
I arched a brow, studying him for a second. “How many guards are posted there, and what’s their rotation?”
“Two guards during deliveries, sometimes just one when it’s quiet,” he stammered. “They rotate every six hours, but it depends on the schedule.”
“Good.” I stepped back, gathering my things. “You’ve been surprisingly useful. Maybe you’ll last here after all.”
His lips twitched into what might’ve been a nervous smile before I turned away.
Once I was back in my quarters, I set everything down on the cot I would never use, desperate for a shower and eager to finalize my plan. Time was running out; I needed to get going.
The showerhead hissed as I turned it on, and a few moments later, steam filled the cramped bathroom. Hot water sprayed over my skin, easing muscles that ached from the hellish days I’d just survived. The mission with Zelenko had gone sideways fast. A small band of Russian soldiers had stumbled upon us. We’d been meeting with our Ukrainian handlers—men I trusted, men who had risked their lives to keep me fed with intelligence and keep my cover intact. We’d been there to update them on some recent North Korean conscripts Putin had sent to the front lines.
It had been sheer bad luck. When they’d come into the warehouse, guns blazing, we’d managed to return fire, taking them down fast, but not fast enough. One of those bullets had torn into Zelenko’s gut, dropping him hard. The image of him crumpling onto the ground replayed in my mind like a slow-motion nightmare. Worse still, our Ukrainian handlers—two men who had known my true allegiance—hadn’t made it out alive.
Their deaths left me in a dangerously precarious position. Only a handful of people knew I was a double agent, and now that number was smaller than ever. That firefight might have compromised my mission, but saving the American would blow it all to hell.
I sighed. Zelenko had been a good man—one of the few with real integrity. He was the kind of person this war couldn’t afford to lose. Losing him stung, but with the two handlers gone as well, I’d lost any semblance of stability I had in this mess. Now I didn’t know who I could trust on the Ukrainian side.
Dammit, I was so sick of being a tool of the government, sick of good people dying. Surely, there was another path for me.
For the last year, I’d worked hard doing everything I could to make amends for all I’d done on behalf of the Kremlin throughout my life, especially the part I’d played in this war early on.
I had long since given up on the normal things women in their early thirties dreamed of. No—love and children would never find a woman who’d lost her humanity.
There could have been a worse fate for me, but my father had done me one favor: he’d handed me over to the Kremlin instead of relegating me to the life of a typical mafia princess—where I’d be told exactly what to do, how to look, what to eat, how to think. At least I knew how to take care of myself and had a decent amount of independence. The noose around my neck had been loose enough for me to cross sides and, if I was lucky, find a way to escape.
All I wanted now was retribution and then peace.
I would never truly be able to clean away the dirtiness of my past, but maybe I could learn to live with myself. Maybe I could help save a stray dog and start my life over, shift my mission into a more personal one. I could avenge my mother, bring my father to justice, and retaliate against everything Soviet . Being a constant thorn in Putin’s side would be my focus. Taking down the billionaire class—men like my father, who laughed at human suffering—was a game I was more than willing to play.
How exactly, I didn’t know, but first things first—we had to get out of this shithole and into a safe area of Ukraine.
The grime and blood that had soaked through my fatigues now swirled down the drain, but the guilt clinging to me wouldn’t wash away so easily. My mind raced faster than my fingers as I scrubbed away layers of filth and lathered my hair—what there was of it.
Short and spiky was easiest, but sometimes I missed my long blonde waves. My hair had been my crown jewel, balancing out my height and giving me the illusion of femininity. Or so I’d thought. The day I’d started at the academy, they’d shaved it off. It was just one of many steps they’d taken to dehumanize me.
I dragged my hands over my face, letting the water pour down. A plan was forming in my mind, the pieces sliding into place, but the risks were glaring.
Braxton Wyatt Thorin—a man who didn’t belong here, a guy who carried his most important possessions around in a backpack like some clueless tourist. Somehow, his naivete didn’t overshadow the fact that I couldn’t leave him here. He was who I was fighting for—good people who brought decency into the world.
He was mine now. My stray.
The thought bit at me, sharp as a shepherd’s canine. My mother’s voice whispered from the past: “ You can’t turn your back on someone in need, Dasha.” She’d always said that when bringing home another mangy dog or helping a stranger in trouble. Back then, I’d thought it was all just fun and games—the more furry friends, the better. Now, I understood all too well why she’d done it. She’d been a virtuous soul married to the Devil.
Except, this stray wasn’t a helpless puppy. He was a tall, strong, hot-as-hell paramedic with kind eyes. A man from a world entirely different than anything I’d ever known.
I didn’t owe him a damn thing.
And yet, here I was planning to bust him out of here.
I shut off the water and stepped out of the shower, grabbing a threadbare towel from the hook. I rubbed it over my hair and called it good. There was no time for sentimentality. Survival was all that mattered—his survival too. Whether or not I liked it, I’d tied my fate to his.
I dressed quickly, pulling on the newly requisitioned clothes. Men’s clothing—loose but functional. My fingers worked methodically to tuck away my tools. Thorin’s passport, wallet, and phone were hidden against my skin in a makeshift pouch I’d crafted from my tank top and bra. His identity now rested on my back—as if I needed another reminder that I was carrying his life in my hands.
The knife slid easily into my boot, its cold handle pressing against my ankle. I clipped the firearm securely to my hip before inspecting my pack one last time, ensuring the explosive devices were ready, tucked alongside Thorin’s pack. Everything was in place.
I booted up Zelenko’s phone, opening up the encrypted app and using his credentials to access the FSB files. It was good I could use Zelenko’s identification to help cover my tracks.
The prison’s layout appeared on the screen, grainy blueprints and satellite images displaying the bones of the place and the surrounding area.
A former munitions factory. Of course. Typical Soviet-era repurposing. The two exits were glaring weaknesses—especially the loading bays in the back, just as the supply chief had said. Trash, bodies, and supplies were funneled through the same damn place. Scrolling through images, I studied the back area carefully, noting where large containers were placed. The success of the plan hinged on the precise timing of my explosives. A diversion was possible, but it would be messy and loud. It would blow not only the loading dock but my cover as well. I just needed to keep my secret of being a double agent until we made it out of this place. Then, I’d be on my own, an independent woman who was no longer controlled by those in power for the first time in my life—if I lived.
Thorin would have to follow my lead without hesitation. The thought gnawed at me. Would he play along? He didn’t seem the type to trust easily.
I picked up Zelenko’s phone, shut it down, and slid it into one of the pockets on my leg. The room was bare now, stripped of anything personal—anything that could give clues about me or him. I glanced at the mirror, catching a glimpse of my worried eyes. Shutting them for a second, I inhaled a deep breath.
No hesitation, no fear. Just control. That was what I needed.
Resolved and ready to get on with it, I settled the pack onto my shoulders, adjusting the straps. My fingers brushed against the cold metal of the firearm on my hip, its presence reassuring. I drew in another breath, steeling myself.
Thorin didn’t know it yet, but tonight, his life depended on me. And I wasn’t planning to let him die in this hellhole.
I shoved open the door to my quarters. It was time to move.
The corridors were mostly quiet as I headed toward the back of the building, my pace unhurried in case anyone was watching the cameras. The few men I passed kept their eyes averted. My steps were steady, boots clicking quietly against the concrete, but my ears were tuned to every sound.
As I rounded a corner, I spotted a pair of guards standing near an open doorway, one smoking while the other was talking and gesturing animatedly. I halted, leaning casually against a wall just out of sight, and pulled out my phone, pretending to respond to a message.
“The American’s going back to the interrogation room soon,” one of them said. “I hear Fedorov wants to crack his knuckles and have a little fun. He doesn’t understand why Melnichenko’s little pet should get a pass. He’s been complaining about how much he hates that Americans always get it easy—they’re all a bunch of arrogant assholes. Besides, the queen herself only said there were to be no visible injuries.”
The other guard chuckled. “What about missing fingers? Would that be considered visible?” Both men laughed.
My fists clenched, nails digging into my palms. What the hell? I’d given Taranov explicit orders to leave him to me. I’d made it crystal clear that if anyone was going to touch the American, it’d be me.
A rush of heat rose in my chest, a fire I tamped down before it flared too brightly. I couldn’t afford to lose my composure here.
I schooled my expression into a neutral mask, pocketed my phone, and continued on my way, striding past the loitering guards without a second glance.
Move fast, think faster.
As I huffed out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, Thorin’s papers and phone shifted against my back, reminding me that at least I had secured his identity. Unless he had been coerced to hand over his personal details since arriving, the guards would remain clueless. I just had to keep it that way.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as I walked through the prison. The place reeked of neglect. Rusted equipment leaned against walls, paint peeled in long strips, and loose wiring snaked along the ceiling. Security cameras dotted the corners, but half of them appeared to be out of commission, their lenses cracked or caked with dust.
Prison personnel hung out in clusters, smoking and laughing as though they had nowhere better to be. Their lack of discipline grated on me, but it would work to my advantage. Complacency was easy to exploit.
I turned a corner and made my way toward the loading bay. The garbage bins loomed in the shadows just ahead, their metal sides scarred with dents and streaks of filth.
I pulled out one explosive from my pack and gave it a twist. Its timer illuminated. The device was small but powerful—enough to create a distraction and destroy anything in its vicinity. Setting it quickly, I adjusted the timer.
Our mostly empty packs went into the bin first, tucked beneath a few layers of garbage. I needed to travel as light as possible and couldn’t afford to let anything get in my way. The explosive followed, nestled deep, where no casual glance would spot it. I wiped my hands on my pants as I stepped back.
One down, one to go.
The garage door was the next target. I crouched low, planting the second device where it would cause the most damage. Timing would be everything. If I miscalculated, or if Thorin slowed me down…
I gritted my teeth. Focus. No room for mistakes.
The weight of the Glock at my hip caught my attention as I stood. I reached down and loosened the tension screw slightly—just enough to make the draw smoother—and unhooked the retention strap that was usually fastened tightly over the top. If Thorin pulled the weapon from me, he’d be able to slide it free in a single, effortless motion. I was leaving him an open door, one I could only hope he’d recognize and use. My fingers brushed the grip one last time, double-checking its position.
With that, I retraced my steps through the prison, keeping my head high and my pace unhurried. The guards continued to avoid eye contact with me. Their unease would work in my favor. As I made my way through the corridors, I filed away every detail of the building—doors, exits, and the number of guards stationed in critical areas.
The plan formed more clearly in my mind with each step I took. The explosions would draw attention away from Thorin and me, buying enough time for us to move through the chaos. But it all hinged on him seizing the opportunity. If he didn’t follow my lead, we were dead. Simple as that.
The muffled tapping of boots against the floor pulled me from my thoughts. Ahead, the corridor narrowed, leading to the cells. My fingers flexed at my sides, ready to draw my weapon if necessary. A few seconds later, the sound drifted away, and I continued on my way.
I paused outside a door I’d noted earlier was a holding room and heard a hand slam down on a table. My pulse quickened, but I ignored the rush of adrenaline, steadying myself. Whatever was on the other side, I had to be ready to react.
They’d better not have broken him already.
Thorin needed to be functional. He didn’t have to be unscathed, but he did have to be able to move—and follow.
The explosives were ticking. The next steps had to be fast and precise.
I banged on the door, drawing in a slow, deliberate breath. “This is Lieutenant Colonel Melnichenko. Open the door,” I commanded. There was a scrape of a chair inside, then hushed voices.
I’d have their balls on a platter if they dared to make me wait another—