Page 75 of Possessive Bratva’s Kidnapped Virgin

The second shooter didn’t hear me coming.

The third was smarter—repositioned when his partner stopped firing, bought himself angle and distance. I caught a muzzle flash twenty meters deeper in the tree line, tracked left of it by three feet because that was where he’d have moved after the flash, and put two rounds into the darkness with enough confidence in my calculation that when I heard the sound of a body going down through underbrush, I was not surprised.

Silence.

I swept the area for twenty seconds. Nothing moved.

Then I went back to the car.

Isla had stopped it where I’d told her to—close enough to the blocking vehicle that I could see it clearly now: a black pickup, plates removed, positioned across the road at an angle designed to prevent bypass. Amateur finishing on a professional setup. Siroc’s people were capable, but they’d underestimated the margin.

They wouldn’t do it again.

I got into the driver’s seat without explanation.

“Are you okay?” Isla rushed, her expression revealing her worry.

“I’m good.”

I assessed the blocking vehicle for secondary occupants—none visible, no heat signatures through the shattered rear window’s remaining frame—then put our car into drive and took the gap between the pickup’s rear end and the tree line at speed, the right mirror taking the hit and folding clean as we scraped through.

We were on the forestry road before the minute was up.

I drove fast and deliberately. Beside me, Isla had her back against the door, her eyes forward, and her hand wrapped around my sleeve at the forearm—not grabbing, not pulling, just present, anchoring.

Neither of us spoke for a long time.

“How many?” she said finally.

“Three that engaged.”

“And?”

“They won’t follow us.”

Then she turned to look at me, and I could feel her gaze on the side of my face the way I always could.

“You knew they’d be in the trees,” she said. “Not in the car.”

“The car was a block. The trees were the kill box.” I watched the road. “The car’s there to stop you. The shooters are there to finish it while you’re stationary.”

“You knew, so you got out.” A pause. “On foot. In the dark.”

“It was the correct tactical response.”

She was quiet again. Then, very quietly, she uttered, “Alexei.”

I glanced at her.

“It’s what I do.”

Whatever was in her face, the mixture of fear, relief, and something that went considerably deeper than either, said the rest.

I put my eyes back on the road.

By the time the forestry track met the main road, I’d already run the implications to their conclusion. The surveillance had been operational long enough to establish patterns. Our arrival had been noted, flagged, and responded to with a coordinated three-man ambush that had been pre-staged, pre-positioned, and waiting for us before we even left the cottage.

This was not improvised. This was not reactive. Someone had anticipated that I might use this location—had thought ahead of me—and had positioned assets accordingly.