Page 1 of Break Me Open
One
Caiden
By the time the truck stops, I can’t feel my arse, and my spine feels like it’s been ground down to powder. The engine coughs, then dies with a shudder that rattles straight through the metal bench into my bones. For a second, no one moves, and the six of us sit there wedged together like badly packed kit, rucksacks between our boots, and breaths fogging the air.
The back doors swing open, and Murmansk punches me square in the face. It’s below-zero cold — not the wet British stuff that seeps in, but something dry and immediate, biting at any bare skin it can find.
I squint against the sudden white glare. The snow isn’t thick yet, just a thin crust over the ground, but the sky has that flat grey look that says it’s not done ruining my day yet.
“Welcome to Russia, lads.” Sergeant Hall grins, clapping a hand against the metal wall. “Off you get. Try not to fall on your arses in front of the locals.”
“Feels like I left my arse three checkpoints back with my bollocks,” Mason mutters next to me, stretching his legs out. He’s from Manchester, built like a wardrobe, and somehow always manages to look like he should be on a building site instead of in uniform.
“Move,” Hall barks, just as tired as the rest of us. Flights, transfers, then this truck, all of it part of the world’s least glamorous exchange programme.
I grab my Bergen, swing it over one shoulder, and follow the others out. The air hits me properly then. It’s like biting into tinfoil.
The garrison sprawls in front of us. There are low concrete buildings, antennae, and a few taller blocks hunched against the horizon. Everything is square, functional, and ugly in the way that says it’ll probably still be standing after the apocalypse.
A line of flagpoles stands near the main admin block, the fabric hanging limp in the barely-there breeze. One Russian flag, one UK, both look equally unimpressed.
My boots crunch on the frost, and my lungs burn with every breath; it feels a long way from England.
“Form it up,” Hall says, and the six of us shuffle into a loose line. A Russian officer waits by the steps of the main building, flanked by two soldiers. He’s maybe mid-forties, square-shouldered, his cap pulled low over his eyes.
A translator stands beside him in a long coat and fur hat, looking like he regrets every life decision that led to this moment.
The officer barks something in Russian, and the translator clears his throat. “Welcome to Murmansk Military Garrison,” he says, his accent is thick, but his English is fairly solid. “Colonel Sokolov wishes you good cooperation and mutual learning.”
He nods as if this is a particularly daring phrase.
Hall steps forward and offers a hand. “Sergeant Hall, Third Battalion,” he says. “We’re grateful for the invite, Colonel.”
Sokolov shakes his hand and says something clipped, the translator trailing behind as they exchange a few more rehearsed lines. Words like “partnership” and “shared objectives” float past.
I try not to roll my eyes.
My gaze drifts over the base, and I seeRussians move between buildings, smoking in tight clusters, and haulingcrates. A few look over at us with idle curiosity — British uniforms in their snow, a novelty for the morning.
One of the soldiers standing slightly behind the Colonel catches my attention. He’s taller than the two beside him, broad across the shoulders without looking bulky, dark blond hair poking out from under his cap, and his jaw dusted with that nearly-a-beard that strict officers hate.
His uniform fits perfectly, his boots are polished, and his hands are relaxed behind his back. He watches the scene with the kind of alert calm that says he’s not just standing there to make up the numbers.
When his eyes flick over our line, I get the sense he’s cataloguing us rather than just looking. He meets my gaze just long enough for a spark of awareness to jump between us, and then he looks away.
I shift my Bergen higher on my shoulder and tell myself I’m only noticing him because I’m knackered and everything feels surreal after too many hours in transit. “This is your liaison,” the translator says suddenly, dragging my attention back. He gestures to the tall soldier I’d just been staring at. “Senior Sergeant Nikorin Zakirov.”
The tall guy steps forward and gives us a short nod. “Dobro pozhalovat,” he says, then adds, in accented but confident English, “Welcome.”
Up close, he’s even more annoyingly put-together. He’s not handsome in a polished way, but he has a steadiness to him. He looks like the kind of bloke who’s funny once he chills out, but you’d probably have to work hard to get him to relax.
“Sergeant Hall,” our sergeant says, shaking his hand. “Good to have you, Zakirov.”
“Please, call me Niko. Everyone does.” He says it like a throwaway line, but I take a mental note of it.
“Right,lads,” Hall says, turning to us. “This is Senior Sergeant Zakirov... Niko. He’s our point of contact. You listen to him like you listen to me, which is to say, perfectly.”
He aims his glare at Mason, who’s already smirking.
