Page 72 of Bratva Stalker Kidnaps His Bride

Only thirty meters left.

Our feet pad against the ground, just thirty meters between us and the northeastern exit when—

A figure steps out of the southern doorway.

By the lack of tactical gear and face covering, I know he is not one of the masked operatives. He’s completely relaxed, not one weapon in his hands. In his mid-fifties, his build is still lean, speaking of decades spent in war and combat.

Dahmer O'Connor.

The Irish syndicate leader.

He tilts his head in contempt and disappointment as I quickly shield Zara and her parents behind me.

“Korovin,” he announces.

“O’Connor. Step aside,” I tell him.

“I have been planning this operation for eight months. Your right hand is gone. Your entry team is compromised. And the people behind you—” his eyes move to Arman and Samira like they are inconvenient obstacles rather than people, “—are ours by right of a debt that predates anything you have a claim over.”

“The debt,” I thunder, “is cleared.”

Just as quickly as his gun comes out from his jacket, I leap at him and Zara and her parents take cover. His face twists into a snarl, and I see the emblem of our tactical gear shining in the dark like a beacon behind O’Connor.

Joshua comes at O’Connor from behind, and I from the front. The gun flies from his hand right as Joshua’s sneak attack comes at the back of his knees. The widely-feared Irish mob lies at my feet, the man behind it all writhing under my hold on the ground.

And it only took me six seconds.

“Secure him,” I bark at Joshua, and he does.

“You fucking cunt, this isn’t—”

I bring my foot down on O’Connor’s throat as he writhes, Joshua’s hold around his neck tight enough to make his eyes bulge.

“You’re done, O’Connor. Quit your yapping,” I growl, putting all my weight into the boot.

Only when the rest of the team arrives and restrains him properly do I turn around to look at my wife.

Zara shines beneath the artificial lights like a beacon, her dark eyes glittering like orbs of mystery as her hair flutters around her, having come loose because of all the action. Even with mystery in them, there is clear affection and worship her eyes that I haven’t seen the depth of like I am now.

She looks like I have brought someone back from the dead for her.

In a second I’m breathing her air, absorbing her warmth greedily as I press my forehead against hers.

“You’re okay?” she asks breathlessly.

“All clear,” I murmur.

She exhales, all the weight of the past months finally falling off her shoulders.

“Let's go home,” she whispers.

Our cars are waiting at the northeastern service road, exactly where Nikolai positioned them.

It takes only ninety seconds for everyone to retreat. Nikolai meets us at the second car, unable to hide the satisfied twinkle in his eyes.

His gaze falls to Arman and Samira, analytical and careful, and then he looks at me.

We got them out.