6. DARIA
Chapter six
T he burly guard slammed the door open so violently it rattled on its hinges, his glare daring me—or anyone—to challenge his self-appointed authority. His eyes narrowed with the smug confidence of someone who believed he could intimidate anyone in this place.
I didn’t bother hiding my fury as I stormed in. I was already so fucking pissed I could’ve murdered someone, but the scene in front of me and the arrogance of the guard sent fire coursing through my veins.
The American sat slumped in a chair, one wrist encircled by a cuff, while the guard next to him gripped the other cuff firmly in his hand. Thorin’s clothes were filthy, streaked with Zelenko’s blood and who knew what else. Beside him sat a torture device—a crude, rusted contraption designed to shear off fingers with brutal efficiency. My gaze caught the name patch on the guard next to him: Fedorov. Not but half an hour ago, I’d overheard those guards bragging about how this man was eager to torture the American. And now, here he was, seconds away from shoving Thorin’s hand into place and severing a finger—openly defying my orders.
“Stop!” I bellowed, my scream reverberating off the concrete walls.
Fedorov, who had been pulling Thorin’s hand toward the device, froze, and his head snapped toward me, gray eyes wide.
The guard who had thrown open the door took a step toward Thorin in an attempt to prevent me from getting too close. His scowl grazed over me as if he thought he could stop me.
I took one step closer to Thorin, scrutinizing Fedorov. “Have you completely lost your mind?!” I shouted.
Fedorov’s upper lip curled into a snarl. Out of nowhere, he shoved Thorin backward so hard that the chair tipped over, crashing to the floor with a loud clatter. He hit the ground hard, the impact sending him into the table leg, scattering loose items onto the floor.
“Son of a bitch!” I roared, surging forward and closing the distance between us, my jaw clamped down so hard I thought my teeth might crack. “What the fuck are you idiots doing?!” My face twisted with rage, heat flushing my skin as the words tore out of me.
I pointed at the heavyset guard, then turned my searing glare on Fedorov, my eyes narrowing with pure rage. “If you don’t back off right now, I’ll slice off your balls and feed them to you,” I said, leaning in, each syllable thick with authority. “I’m a lieutenant colonel, and if you don’t back the fuck up, I’m going demote you both to privates. Understood?”
The words landed like a slap. Fedorov’s hands shot up in a defensive gesture, his snarl replaced by a stunned expression, eyes wide. “I’m Major Fedorov, chief interrogation officer. It’s my job to ensure we get all the information we can from prisoners. We…we were just—”
I cut him off with a wave of my hand and jabbed a finger at his chest. “Sergeant Major Taranov ordered you not to touch the prisoner! This American is mine!”
God, how could these soldiers defy their orders so brazenly?
I advanced on them, forcing both men to back away from Thorin, who was now pulling himself upright. “You’re both complete morons! Do you want to be sent to Siberia?! Putin’s gulag will be fun for you if you keep ignoring orders!”
They blanched, exchanging worried looks, their eyes darting around frantically. Good. Fear was an excellent motivator.
I pointed to Thorin’s face, where the cut over his eye had reopened and leaked blood down his cheek. “Are you serious? How am I supposed to present him to the president with bruises and cuts like that?!”
Fedorov’s face paled further, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to form a defense. I didn’t let him speak. “President Putin personally ordered me to deliver him tomorrow for a propaganda campaign! Do you want to explain to me why he looks like shit?!”
I slammed my hand onto the table, scattering more papers onto the floor. The guards jumped at the sound, their eyes flicking from me to the scattered papers.
“How can you be such fucking screwups? Get out before I make you regret ever being born!” If they lingered another second, I wouldn’t be able to control my anger any longer.
Fedorov and his lackey all but tripped over themselves as they hurried toward the door and mumbled apologies.
I had to move fast. The camera in the upper corner of the room blinked steadily, watching and recording. There were enough working cameras throughout the prison that anyone watching this live might be able to piece things together. If I wanted to pull this off, I needed to sell it. Every move and reaction had to scream authenticity.
Thorin stood near the table, his chest rising and falling with harsh breaths as he glared at the retreating backs of the two guards. A bead of sweat traced a line down his temple, disappearing into the stubble along his jaw. His broad shoulders were rigid, every muscle taut like a bowstring, ready to snap. His hands hovered by his sides, fingers curling and uncurling, as if itching to grab something—or someone. He didn’t glance my way, and no part of him moved except for the slight muscle jerking in his forearm, a betrayal of the storm brewing inside him. He didn’t know the plan and couldn’t have guessed that I was orchestrating his escape. He had no idea that the next few moments would determine whether or not we both walked out of this place alive.
I stepped between him and the open door, blocking his most obvious exit. Deliberately, I crouched down with my back hip turned toward him, to pick up the papers I’d scattered earlier. The Glock sat there, unclipped, within easy reach—the perfect bait.
Come on, Mr. Boy Scout, I’m giving you every opportunity. Don’t be a pussy. Take the gun.
Seconds stretched like hours as I stayed bent over longer than necessary, my hands shuffling the papers into a loose stack.
What are you waiting for? Me to hand you the gun?
I started to stand, suppressing a groan of exasperation. He wasn’t going to do it. What a wuss.
Wiggling my hips slightly, I made the Glock even more accessible.
For fuck’s sake. Take the gun.
Finally, I felt it—the distinct sensation of the weight of the weapon disappearing from its holster. My heart kicked up—not with fear, but with relief. About damn time .
His arm locked around my throat like a steel band, pulling me back against him. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he said in his American drawl. He shoved the barrel of the Glock into my ribs with enough force to make me wince.
The safety clicked off.
Oh, he had balls after all.
Thorin wasn’t gentle—his grip was firm, his movements aggressive. It was exactly what I needed. He had no idea he was playing right into my hands, but I had to give him credit. Most men couldn’t manhandle me like this.
He forced me toward the door, his forearm cutting into my throat. I stumbled, pretending to struggle, gasping out loudly for the benefit of anyone watching via the cameras. In Russian, I shouted for him to let me go. I yanked down on his arm in a dramatic fashion that, in reality, didn’t have much force to it.
“Shut up!” he barked, pushing me forward.
I continued to make a show of resisting, thrashing just enough for it to look convincing, but not enough to actually fight him. He held firm, his strength surprising me. A flicker of respect sparked in the back of my mind, quickly chased by an unfamiliar feeling I couldn’t afford to focus on.
Thorin maneuvered me out of the holding room and into the hallway. His grasp didn’t falter, and the gun stayed firmly lodged in my ribs. He moved quickly, keeping my body anchored to his. His fingers were twisted tightly in the fabric of my shirt, and he used the grip to control my movements. His instincts were better than I’d expected.
Good. This was working.
As we made our way through the corridors, I subtly adjusted our path, tilting my weight just enough to steer him without him realizing it. The door we needed, the one leading outside, was just up ahead.
“Where’s the way out?” he demanded.
In Russian, I shouted back a response, telling him that he was crazy if he thought he was getting out of here alive, keeping up my act and deliberately stumbling.
“Shut up and move,” he growled, tightening his grip and shoving me harder. I jerked dramatically beneath the arm he had wrapped around my throat, earning me a knee in the back just as we passed beneath another camera. It was pointed straight at us. Perfect.
We reached the door. Thorin hesitated for half a second, glancing back down the hallway, then leaned in closer.
“Open it,” he ordered.
I didn’t move. Playing the hostage meant I didn’t help him. He should’ve known that.
Instead of repeating himself, he released the arm around my throat and spun me with brutal force, slamming my chest into the wall beside the door. In one smooth motion, he yanked my right arm up behind my back—high enough to hurt, but not enough to dislocate. He pulled the gun from my ribs for a split second to hit the lever with the back of his knuckles and shoulder the door open.
He paused, leaning out to scan the exterior.
“I don’t see anyone,” he muttered under his breath.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him block the door open with his foot.
For a fleeting moment, I thought things might actually go smoothly—after all, we hadn’t met any guards in the hallways.
Instead of returning the gun to my ribs, he suddenly shoved me hard against the wall, pinning my arm with his own—the butt of the gun digging into my back. His other hand had just released my wrist when the cold steel of a handcuff snapped around it.
I froze. What the fuck? He had cuffed me to him!
He pulled back a little and repositioned the gun back to my ribs as his big hand gripped my forearm and maneuvered me through the door.
Leaning in, I hissed at him in Russian, calling him an idiot. I clenched my teeth and tugged on the chain between us to emphasize my point. This was going to slow us down.
He ignored me, stabbing me harder with the gun, as if that made him the one in charge. I couldn’t believe he’d done it. My irritation burned beneath the surface, but I kept my face neutral; the cameras were still watching. I couldn’t afford to throttle him yet.
This was supposed to be simple. Play the hostage, lead the way out, save us both. Now I was tethered to a Boy Scout who thought he was running the show.
We descended the steps from the side door, the gun jabbing into me with each step he took. I adjusted my pace subtly, making it seem like he was in charge while continuing to steer him where I needed him to go.
I tugged him forward, guiding us through the parking area. Trucks and military vehicles loomed around us, their hulking shadows giving me just enough cover to work with.
My eyes darted toward the front gate, several rows of vehicles away. The single guard stationed in the shack ahead was the only thing standing between us and freedom. Good. I could handle one guard, but I wasn’t so sure about the man I was chained to.
We moved into a tight space between two trucks—passing momentarily out of view from the shack and the prying eyes of the cameras. It was then I decided enough was enough. I wasn’t about to let this amateur keep a gun at my back any longer. The possibility of him shooting me if things went wrong was not a risk I was willing to take.
Without breaking stride, I spun around and wrenched the gun out of his hand before he could react. Thorin stumbled back, his brows shooting up in surprise.
“Well fuck me,” he muttered, blinking as if trying to process what had just happened.
I rolled my eyes, holding the gun tightly to my side.
Before Thorin could make a move against me, I darted to his side, seizing his arm and twisting it behind his back, leaving him off-balance and at my mercy. His grunt of discomfort was satisfying, but I didn’t linger on it. I pressed the barrel of the gun against his ribs and shoved him forward.
I hissed out an order for him to move, steering us toward the guard shack. Despite the language barrier, Thorin obeyed, his steps quickening. The shack was barely visible in the darkness, its outline blending into the night. A dim glow from inside leaked through the blacked-out windows, allowing me to see that the guard was still oblivious to what was happening.
We were close now. Every muscle in my body was primed for action. One mistake, one hesitation, and this whole plan would fall apart.
But there wouldn’t be any mistakes. Not on my watch.
When we were a few paces from the shack, I stopped abruptly, tightening my grip on Thorin’s arm and yanking him to a halt. The chain between us rattled. I loudly barked out an order. “Hey, you! Get out here, now!”
The guard partially emerged, his silhouette backlit by the illumination coming from inside the shack. He was young—barely more than a boy. He was resting his hand on his firearm when he should have been aiming the gun at us, with his finger on the trigger, at the ready.
“Halt! What are you doing?” he asked nervously, jutting out his chin, clearly trying to put on a good front and appear authoritative. His hand fumbled at his side, and he sloppily pulled a Makarov PM from its holster. It was a standard-issue pistol, compact and reliable, but his grip was unsteady. The safety was still engaged.
I tightened my fingers on Thorin’s arm, digging them into his skin and cranking it higher up his back, just enough to make him grunt.
“Stand down and give me the keys to the UAZ,” I barked, gesturing to a vehicle sitting just off to the side of the shack.
The guard hesitated, his eyes darting from me to Thorin and back. Suspicion flashed across his face, but he didn’t move.
Thorin, for his part, remained still and quiet, listening to the exchange of Russian.
I stepped forward. “I just received orders to transport this American to Bryansk. Ukrainian Special Forces are already on their way here to recover him.”
The guard’s grip on his pistol faltered, and he shifted. “Why the UAZ?”
“Who are you to question a Special Intelligence Lieutenant Colonel? But for clarity, the UAZ is compact, maneuverable, and can handle off-road conditions,” I snapped at him, daring him to disrespect me by asking another question. “It’s the best option for a stealthy prisoner move under the cover of darkness. Do you want to be the reason we lose him?”
His lips pressed into a thin line. He was still hesitant. I kept my expression schooled, staring him down for a moment before continuing.
“Did you not hear the order? Or are you just that stupid?” My patience had run out. I tightened my hold on Thorin’s arm, shoving him hard toward the doorway of the shack, as if he were the source of my annoyance.
Suddenly, a thunderous explosion rocked the night, its deep boom reverberating through the prison grounds. The guard froze, his head snapping toward the sound. His eyes widened, and his body tensed.
“What the hell was that?” Thorin muttered, his head turning instinctively toward the sound.
Before anyone could react, another explosion—this one even louder than the first—ripped through the air. I rolled in my lips, refusing to let any satisfaction show on my face at how perfect the timing of the detonations were. The vibrations rattled the shack, and the guard stumbled back, panic etched into his young face.
“Shit!” he cursed, shifting his weight to move toward the safety of the shack.
I surged forward, quickly bringing my Glock around to aim it at him. His panic motivated him to retreat further. He made it into the shack, but before he could close the door, I pulled the trigger.
The shot echoed, cutting through the night. The guard screamed, clutching his knee as he collapsed to the ground. He hit the floor with a thud, writhing in pain, his pistol slipping from his hand.
And with that, my cover was irrevocably blown. Now all that mattered was survival.
“Oh, fuck!” Thorin yelped, his face contorting in disgust. “He’s just a kid!”
I rolled my eyes, biting back the urge to shoot him too. His naivety could get us killed.
I wasted no time snatching up the Makarov and tucking it into the empty holster that had previously held my Glock. It wasn’t a perfect fit, but it would do. At least it wasn’t trembling in the boy’s hands anymore.
The guard writhed on the floor, his face pale and slick with sweat. I grabbed the handcuffs dangling from his belt and secured one end to his wrist and the other to the metal leg of a bolted-down table. His protests were incoherent, lost beneath his gasping cries.
I stepped to the cabinet, where a row of keys hung neatly. Turning, I pointed the gun at the guard’s chest. “The key to the UAZ Hunter. Which one is it?”
He shook his head, shuddering.
I didn’t hesitate. Another shot rang out. This time, the bullet went into his foot. His scream was ear-piercing, but I didn’t care. They would have surely heard the first shot; we only had a few precious seconds to get the hell out of here before guards descended on us. “The next bullet goes into your balls.”
The guard whimpered, his face contorting in agony. “The red key ring! The red key ring!”
I spotted it immediately and grabbed it from the hook. Turning back to the guard, I tilted my head. “Smart,” I said dryly. “Good thing I didn’t have to kill you.”
Glancing around, I found the lever to open the gate. It was situated on the wall next to the desk. I flipped it and ordered Thorin to move, shoving him out of the shack while the gate groaned open.
I didn’t give Thorin time to react but forced him toward the UAZ. The next steps had to be flawless. There was no margin for error.
The distant shouts began to grow louder. Every instinct screamed at me to move faster, but the damn handcuffs between Thorin and me slowed our pace. We were cutting this too close.
When we reached the UAZ, I yanked the driver’s-side door open. With a jab of my fingers, I gestured toward the passenger side, my glare daring Thorin to hesitate.
He froze for half a second, his brows pulling together in a confused grimace, but then his body eased in compliance. My urgency must have gotten through to him. “Go!” I snarled in English, tugging at the cuffs to emphasize the command.
I hated using English. The last thing I wanted was for Thorin to know I spoke it flawlessly. That was a card I wasn’t ready to play. Trust wasn’t something I had to give anyone, especially not an American whose very presence here was putting my life in jeopardy. He didn’t need to know anything about me—not my skills, my motives, or my thoughts. A wall between us was necessary, and I intended to keep it firmly in place.
Thorin climbed into the driver’s seat, shifting his weight as he tried to leverage himself over to the passenger side, his bulky frame nearly filling the cabin. The handcuffs between us jerked awkwardly, and he tugged me along with his every movement as he attempted to maneuver himself into the passenger seat. His ass banged against the manual gearshift, and the entire vehicle rocked slightly as he twisted and turned, trying to fit.
“For fuck’s sake,” I growled in Russian, giving him a shove that sent him sprawling into the seat. He huffed, his breath coming out in a frustrated grunt as he finally managed to flop into his seat.
“Charming as always,” he muttered.
I ignored him, slipping gracefully into the driver’s seat and slamming the door shut behind me. The cuffs between us pulled taut again—a constant, maddening reminder of how stupid his move to chain us together had been. The damn things were going to make this escape harder, but shooting them off wasn’t an option at the moment, not after all the noise we’d already made.
I placed my Glock between my thighs and handed him the Makarov. Locking eyes with him, I ordered him in a heavy Russian accent, “Shoot.” Then I formed a gun with my fingers, pretending to shoot out the window.
His eyes widened as if he was processing what I was doing—what I was helping him do. He took the pistol without hesitation, his large hands wrapping around it like it was second nature. His expression softened, the hard lines of suspicion giving way to cautious understanding. As he tested the weight of the weapon, flipping it in his hand with a practiced motion, his brows lifted slightly and he smirked. His gaze darted to me, and this time, his eyes didn’t hold distrust but a glimmer of reluctant gratitude.
Without a word, he racked the slide back smoothly, checking the chamber. Satisfied that a round was loaded, he disengaged the safety with a flick of his thumb and cocked the hammer, setting it into single-action mode. His movements were confident—good.
He scanned the parking lot, the barrel of the Makarov steady as it followed his gaze. The tension in his shoulders increased, but his breathing remained calm. His control surprised me. So the Boy Scout knew how to handle himself after all.
Behind us, guards spilled out of the prison, their shouts growing louder.
I shoved the key into the ignition, twisting it hard. The engine roared to life. I threw the gearshift into first, dragging Thorin’s arm along with mine. His body jerked awkwardly, but he didn’t complain, and he managed to keep the gun in his other hand trained on the advancing guards.
The gate began to close, the gap shrinking with every second that passed.
I slammed my foot down on the accelerator. The UAZ jolted forward, its tires screeching against the pavement as we shot toward the narrowing opening. My left foot hit the clutch in a sudden motion while my hand yanked the shifter into second gear. The engine whined, and I released the clutch with a swift snap, smashing my foot back onto the gas. The transition was seamless, the UAZ surging forward like a race car, eating up the distance between us and the gate just in time to squeeze through.
Gunfire erupted behind us, and a bullet ricocheted off the vehicle’s frame. Thorin ducked instinctively but continued to track the chaos outside.
The road ahead twisted, barely visible in the hazy moonlight. I kept the headlights off, relying on adrenaline and what I remembered seeing of the roads when we’d driven in. I gripped the wheel and the shifter tightly, towing Thorin’s hand along while I changed gears, the cuff digging into my wrist. He adjusted awkwardly to keep up. He didn’t complain though. His silence was a relief.
After a minute or so, he rested the Makarov on his thigh. I found it interesting how composed he was. This man was more than just a pretty face. For the first time, I grudgingly admitted to myself that he might actually be useful.
I rounded a tight curve, throwing us both sideways in our seats. I didn’t dare turn on the headlights. The last thing we needed was to make ourselves an easier target. The world outside was a blur of darkness, the outline of the road barely visible against the surrounding fields.
Once the land flattened out, I pushed the UAZ faster. I could feel every bump, every dip in the terrain, and if we veered off the road, the tires crunched over the weeds and uneven ground, guiding me back onto the pavement.
According to the map I’d studied while reviewing the prison layout, there was an old road nearby that had been abandoned and mostly forgotten since the border was redrawn and sealed off. There had been little detail, just a faint line fading into the tree cover, but I’d noted its location. It was a risk, but it was our best chance.
Just as I topped a low rise, the overgrown paving of the abandoned road appeared ahead, a barely perceptible opening leading into a wooded area. I eased my foot off the accelerator and guided the UAZ toward it with care, keeping the tires on the firmest patches of ground I could spot in the darkness. The road was little more than a scar on the landscape, swallowed by time and neglect, but it was there—just as the map had indicated. The tall grass and tangled undergrowth scratched against the sides of the vehicle, making an eerie sound as I maneuvered us forward.
The overgrowth here was dense enough to obscure most tracks, but I knew better than to rely on that alone. The weight of the UAZ was pressing the vegetation flat, so I kept to the edges of the shadowy path, where the ground looked firmer and more likely to spring back into shape. It wasn’t a perfect strategy, but it might be enough to slow potential pursuers. If anyone was tracking us, I didn’t want to make their job easy.
As we pressed deeper into the woods, the road became more difficult to follow, its unclear outline disappearing under layers of fallen leaves and branches. The UAZ thrashed around, knocking us about and causing the handcuffs to jerk against our wrists.
The closer we got to the border, the more the risks multiplied. This region was full of dangers: land mines buried in the earth, cameras camouflaged in trees, and patrols with untrustworthy loyalties. I drove in tense silence, my attention split between the road ahead and the threats lurking unseen.
I glanced at Thorin. He didn’t speak, but I sensed his unease. I continued moving cautiously, wary of the traps and other threats hidden in this area. For his sake, I hoped I was wrong—that we wouldn’t come across anything deadly before we reached the border.
We would have to abandon the UAZ soon so as not to be easily spotted. On foot, we’d have to be even more cautious, covering our tracks, avoiding open ground, and staying as invisible as possible. The woods were our ally for now. Dark, treacherous, and unpredictable as they were, at least they offered some semblance of cover.
When the road narrowed, forcing me to slow even further, my chest tightened. Each turn was a gamble, but there was no turning back. If we were going to make it out of here alive, we’d have to rely on every ounce of skill we possessed, as well as a whole lot of luck.