Page 66 of Bratva Stalker Kidnaps His Bride

I am going to find them.

Two hours.

Chapter 25 - Zara

Mikhail says no with his whole body.

The set of his shoulders, the angle he turns toward me when I tell him I am coming—all of it means no.

I don’t really care about how he feels though.

“My parents are in that compound,” I iterate, standing in the doorway of the room where Nikolai has the satellite images spread across the table. “I have been chasing this for three months and I have been shot at and ambushed and misdirected. I have crossed two oceans and you will not stop me from being in that building when we open the door.”

His jaw clenches as he glares at me.

“I don’t want to stop you, and you know that,” he grits.

“Great, so we’re on the same team then.”

“You know we aren’t. Your safety matters the most to me.”

“My safety,” I repeat flatly. “Mikhail. I am the one who knew Timur was acting weird. I am the one who found the earrings. I am the one who narrowed the Ionian range from forty-three photographs while running on four hours of sleep and nearly overdosed on fucking caffeine. Do not tell me what I can and cannot handle.”

Nikolai, to his credit, finds something extremely interesting to study on the satellite image, pretending we aren’t having a couple’s spat right in front of him.

Mikhail looks frustrated with his arms crossed until they drop by his sides as weariness appears on his face.

“You stay within my perimeter at all times,” he orders. “You do not move independently. If I tell you to get down, you get down stat.”

“Agreed,” I say nonchalantly.

“And you tell no one about any of this when it is over.”

“Well… I am a journalist…”

“Zara.”

“Fine.”

The drive to the compound takes forty minutes, too short to undo anything, too long to stop thinking about everything that could go wrong. I sit in the back of the lead vehicle between Mikhail and the window, the operation's layout on a tablet in my lap. My eyes dart to and from the satellite image and the dark road unspooling ahead of us.

We’re accompanied by eight personnel, including Nikolai running coordination from a secondary vehicle. Mikhail leads the entry team with four operatives and I’m positioned inside his perimeter, which is approximately two feet from him at all times.

“The northeastern corner gap. Fifteen meters by the border, where the sight line’s obstructed by the building's roofline. That is the entry point,” Mikhail mutters lowly beside me, his voice directed at the tablet as his finger moves across the screen. “The approach from the eastern service road gives us the most cover. We move in two teams: primary entry through the northeastern corner, the other holds the southern exit to prevent extraction.”

“If they have my father inside,” I interrupt, “they will have him in the interior rooms, away from the exterior walls. Standard containment logic.” Seeing the look he gives me, I scoff, “I havebeen reporting on criminal organizations for five years. I know how this works.”

The corner of his mouth curves for a moment. “Interior rooms, north side of the compound. The satellite thermal imaging shows consistent heat signatures in that section over the last six hours.”

“That's them,” I blurt out, the certainty shooting warmth up my spine.

“Probably,” Mikhail agrees.

Our car slows down when we are a kilometer from the compound, close enough that the building’s lighting is visible in the distance—a low amber glowing through the trees that line the northern access road. The team deploys from their vehicles silently and tactically, trained for this night.

Mikhail checks my vest without asking, two quick adjustments to the side panels, and while the contact is brief, it still does something to my heartbeat anyway. I know he notices it too because he pauses for half a second longer than needed before he steps back.

“Stay close,” he instructs lowly.