Page 112 of The Bratva Stalker's Ruthless Claim
I stand there for a few seconds longer than necessary, staring at the empty stretch of road beyond the safe house gate.
It doesn’t feel right.
Everything about the exchange had been controlled—too controlled. Professional. Clean.
But something about it keeps scratching at the back of my mind like a loose thread.
Ellie stepping into that vehicle.
The agents.
The timing.
I turn abruptly and head back inside.
The security room is dim, lit only by the glow of monitors lining the wall. I drop into the chair and pull up the perimeter camera feeds.
If there’s one thing I trust in this world, it’s data.
The footage rewinds smoothly.
The convoy appears again—three dark SUVs rolling to a stop outside the gate.
I slow the playback and zoom in.
Plate numbers.
Clear enough.
Good.
I extract the frames and run the numbers through the system, linking into a series of private registries I’ve used for years.
The results come back in under two minutes.
My jaw tightens.
Falsified.
Every single plate.
I run them again, checking different databases.
Same result.
No legitimate registration.
No federal authorization markers.
Nothing.
Cold realization spreads through my chest.
“Son of a bitch.”
I grab my phone and dial Timofey.
He answers immediately.
