Page 4 of Break Me Open
“How old are you?” Mason asks, as blunt as ever.
“Rude,” Niko says, raising an eyebrow.
“Oh, come on,” Mason presses. “We’re supposed to be building international trust.”
Niko sighs and puts his fork down with exaggerated care. “Twenty-three,” he says. “Very old. Ancient.”
That makes me pause. He’s only three years older than me, and somehow, I expected more. Not because he looks older, he doesn’t — not really, but because he feels older. Solid, established even, like he’s been in this role forever.
“Christ, that’s it,” Collins mutters. “We’re all children. Someone let the toddlers have guns.” Hall shoots him a glare that translates to ‘shut the fuck up.’
“You joined when?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
“Eighteen,” Niko says. “Conscription. I stayed.” He shrugs again, like it’s simple. “It’s good for something, better than going home and doing nothing.”
Something in his tone says there’s more to that, and I file it away again. “Right, lads. Speed it up. We didn’t come here just to insult their cooking.” Hall says, checking his watch.
“Speak for yourself,” Mason says, but he shoves the last of his bread into his mouth anyway.
We dump our trays and follow Niko out again.
The tour is a blur of concrete, snow, and metal. He shows us the assault course. It’s a tangled mess of rope, wooden walls, pits, and beams that looks as if it were built by someone who hates knees. It snakes up a shallow slope toward a tree line. “In winter, there’s more ice,” Niko says cheerfully. “Very fun. We have how you say... broken ankles? Yes. Many.”
“Looking forward to it,” I say sarcastically.
He shows us the ranges, the armoury, and a vehicle park with rows of trucks and transports that all look like they’d still run after losing half their parts.
Everywhere we go, Russians glance at us. Some whispering, a few staring openly, the curiosity is undisguised. Niko switches between Russian and English like breathing, translating where necessary, smoothing over a joke here and clarifying a comment there. He never seems out of his depth.
At one point, we pass a group of soldiers jogging in formation. Their squad leader barks an order, and they split neatly around us without breaking stride, like a river around rocks. “You lot could learn something from that,” Hall mutters.
“We do run in straight lines,” Mason says. “We just complain while we do it.”
By late afternoon, the light’s already starting to flatten, the sky in this part of the world giving up early. My body thinks it’s about midnight, but my watch says otherwise. “Last thing,” Niko says. “Then we will take you back. I recommend you sleep. Tomorrow is... busy.”
He leads us toward a small clearing at the edge of the base where the buildings thin out and the ground slopes gently toward the distant line of trees. There’s a view of the vast grey water from here. He stops, folds his arms, and looks out at it for a second, like he’s checking nothing’s changed overnight. “What’s this, then?” I ask.
“Best place to smoke, where the officers cannot see.”
“Now we’re talking,” Mason says, immediately lighting up. Hall gives him a look but doesn’t comment; he’s probably dying for one too.
Niko doesn’t smoke. He stands with his hands in his pockets, letting the wind tug at his jacket. There’s a small scar along his jaw I hadn’t noticed before. It’s pale and catches the light when he turns his head.
“How many Brits have you had through here?” I ask, trying to distract myself from staring.
“You are the first,” Niko replies. “We’ve worked with NATO officers in conferences and training. But not like this. Not a full group.” He shrugs. “You are the pilot programme.”
“Christ. No pressure then,” Hall says while wincing.
Niko’s mouth twitches. “Don’t worry,” he says. “We will tell them you’re very brave. Very strong. Very polite.”
“Fuck me, he’s funny,” Mason says, letting out a snort of smoke.
I find myself smiling. It’s subtle, this thing he does — the humour threaded under the formality — and it makes the whole place feel less like enemy territory and more like some weird extended training camp where half the lads happen to speak another language. “You’re stuck with us for how long?” I ask.
“Three months,” Niko replies. “Maybe four, if the colonels enjoy paperwork too much.”
Three months doesn’t sound like much, said out loud, but in soldier time, three months is a lifetime. Long enough for grudges, friendships, or to find out whether you like the bloke they’ve paired you with... or if you’ll be trying to drown him by the end. “Enough time to see what you can do,” Niko adds, almost as an afterthought.
