Page 68 of Bratva Stalker Kidnaps His Bride
The air smells of damp cement, machine oil, and disinfectant strong enough to disguise blood. My pulse continues hammering against my ribs, each beat arriving faster than the last, but somewhere beneath the adrenaline another instinct steadies itself.
Panic has never solved anything.
Mikhail pauses only long enough to scan the intersecting corridor ahead, his shoulders remaining impossibly loose despite the tension vibrating beneath the surface. Watching him move always reminds me of predators in wildlife documentaries. Every motion serves a purpose, every glance measures distance. Nothing is wasted. Every breath anticipates consequence.
“The northern wing branches twice,” he says quietly, his attention fixed ahead. “Stay behind my right shoulder.”
“I already am.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
His eyes flick toward me for the briefest fraction of a second, irritation clear in them. We move again without another word.
The corridor stretches ahead in two directions before opening into a wider intersection lined with heavy steel doors. One hangs partially open, swaying almost imperceptibly as though someone disappeared through it moments ago. Another bears fresh scrape marks around the handle, bright silver cutting through chipped black paint.
“They moved recently,” I murmur.
“Must be clearing evidence.”
“No.”
He glances toward me.
“If by evidence you mean people, then yes.”.
My stomach clenches anxiously.
The compound feels abandoned on purpose.
A burst of hurried footsteps echoes somewhere above us, crossing from one side of the building to the other before disappearing entirely. Every instinct inside me screams upward, but Mikhail's hand closes gently around my forearm before I can move.
“Not there.”
“You heard them.”
“I heard a distraction.”
His certainty pulls me back half a step.
Then I notice that the footsteps stop too perfectly. No swinging of doors or voices.
Someone wanted us looking toward the stairs.
“They're buying time,” I whisper.
We turn left instead.
The corridor narrows until exposed pipes run along the ceiling, dripping steadily into shallow puddles that mirror the overhead lights in fractured pieces. My boots splash softly through the water as we move, each sound seeming far louder than it should. Somewhere behind us another door slams shut.
“Mikhail.”
He nods, gritting his teeth. His hand rises without looking back, signaling the two operatives following us to cover the rear approach. They separate immediately, rifles angled toward the intersection while the rest of us continue deeper into the compound.
The entire building feels strangely unfinished, as though whoever designed it cared only about function. Bare concrete, exposed wiring, reinforced corners.
Another intersection appears ahead, wider and brighter.
