Page 7 of Prey of the Bratva

Because she always had something else going on in her mind. That was the first thing about her that had caught my attention weeks ago. It was not recklessness or defiance but a quiet awareness. Her car slowed again, then came to an abrupt stop along the curb.

“That’s not her destination,” Viktor noted.

“No.”

We drove past without pausing, knowing that one should never stop where the target stops. Through the side mirror, I watched her step out of the vehicle, dismiss the driver with a single word, and walk away without looking back. There was no hesitation or second glance.

“She’s abandoning her car,” Viktor said.

“Why would she do that?”

I allowed myself the faintest trace of satisfaction because there it was. Confirmation that something deeper was going on than what appeared on the surface. This was not boredom or rebellion, but intent.

“Loop around,” I instructed.

We took the next turn, circling the block without drawing attention. By the time we returned to the street, her original car was gone, the driver likely still waiting exactly where she had left him. Obedient, predictable, and useless.

“She’ll switch vehicles,” Viktor said.

“She already has.”

Because I had seen it. Two streets down, a rideshare was pulling away at the exact moment she had disappeared from sight. The timing was too precise to be a coincidence.

“She planned this,” Viktor muttered.

“Of course she did.”

I leaned forward slightly, my focus sharpening. This was where most people made mistakes. They panicked, rushed, and closed the distance in an attempt to regain control. But I did neither. This was the exact moment I had been waiting for. If I wanted to kill Misha Chernykh, I wanted her alone and vulnerable, and today could definitely be my lucky day.

“Let her go,” I said.

Viktor glanced at me briefly. “We risk losing her.”

“No,” I replied calmly. “We risk her noticing us.”

There was a difference, and I did not hunt by being seen. We did not follow the rideshare directly. Instead, we paralleled the route, using adjacent streets, anticipating rather than reacting. I mapped her possible exits in my head, narrowing them down based on traffic flow and timing. By the time the rideshare reached its midpoint, I already knew she would not stay in it.

“Do you think she will switch again?” Viktor asked.

“Yes.”

Because one layer of separation was never enough. The second vehicle was exactly where I expected it to be. It was an unremarkable black Honda parked in an empty lot, invisible to anyone not actively looking for it.

“She’s thorough,” Viktor noted.

“She’s careful.”

We did not approach the car or linger. We drove past once, then twice, confirming entry without ever stopping. I settled back into my seat, my expression unreadable.

“She’s good,” Viktor commented.

“She is a Chernykh. Of course, she is trained.”

That was the only explanation. This level of operational awareness was not instinct alone. It was practice, repetition, and discipline. It might have simply come from living in a mafia household, but it also meant that she had been doing this for a while. The Honda pulled out into traffic, merging seamlessly. This time, we followed, but at a distance wide enough to appear incidental.

“I think she is onto us,” Viktor said.

“Yes.”