Page 4 of Bratva Hostage

“Go,” I command, gesturing for the men to move ahead. I follow closely behind. Inside, the hallway reeks of mildew and sweat. Overturned crates line the walls, and heavy footfalls echo from deeper in the building.

Shots ring out from behind a corner. We press against the wall just as another volley rips the air. Viktor curses under his breath. I signal for two men to lay down cover fire, then duck around the corner. A lone enemy stands there, rifle trembling in his grip, eyes wide at the sight of us. I shoot first. He collapses.

“Keep moving,” I snap. “Cecily must be deeper in. Maksim said Thorne’s men escorted a captive to an inner room.”

We hurry past a storage bay filled with rusting shelves. Broken glass litters the floor, crunching underfoot. Each stepdraws us closer to the heart of Thorne’s hideout. My earpiece crackles. Maksim’s voice: “Perimeter is secure. We’re coming in. Watch your flank.”

“Roger.” I wave my team forward. “Aleksei, how are we looking?”

His voice cuts in. “No sign of Thorne himself yet, but we’ve pinned three of his men. Finish inside. We’ll guard your rear.”

We advance down a second corridor that branches left and right. “We’ll check the next corridor. If that’s empty, we circle back to the other side. She has to be in one of these rooms.”

Gunfire erupts down the right hallway, and a pained cry follows. My heart lurches. That could be Cecily in danger, or it could be Thorne’s men staging a last stand. I signal the group to press on. We reach a locked door. Voices drift from inside. One is definitely male. That could be Thorne or a lieutenant.

One of my men sets a charge on the lock, and a small explosion rattles the door. I storm inside, pistol at the ready. Two men stand behind a desk, rifles raised. I shoot the first one in the shoulder, sending him crashing into the wall. The second returns fire, forcing me behind a filing cabinet. My team fans out, pinning him from two angles. Bullets tear into crates and metal surfaces. Then, the gunman staggers from a shot to the leg, dropping his rifle with a clatter.

“Where’s Cecily Thorne?” I demand. He clutches his thigh and spits at the ground, refusing to speak, so I press my pistol to his forehead. “Answer.”

He glowers but clenches his jaw, glaring like he’d rather die than give in.

A scuffle behind me draws my attention. Viktor has the second man pinned, the one I clipped in the shoulder. Blood smears his shirt. Viktor growls, “Talk. Now.”

The wounded man whimpers. “Basement… She’s in the basement.”

“Which door?”

“Next hallway, last door on the left,” he gasps. “Stairs going down.”

I nod to Viktor. He knocks the man out cold with a crack to the back of the skull, then ties his hands. The other gunman slumps, likely unconscious from blood loss. Good enough. I have my target.

“Basement,” I say to the men. “Let’s go.”

We double back to the corridor, collecting the two who’d guarded our flank. We spot a large metal door at the end, exactly as described. Locked, of course. One of my men plants a small pry bar. I assist, yanking the handle until it snaps. The door creaks open, revealing a narrow stairwell. The air is stale, reeking of old dampness.

We descend quietly, rifles raised. Halfway down, we hear footsteps overhead—Aleksei’s group entering the building. Good timing. At the bottom of the stairs, a single guard sits on an overturned crate, chewing gum. He sees us too late. I fire once. He tumbles over, completely limp.

We hurry past him toward a row of doors. My earpiece crackles again, this time with Aleksei’s voice: “We have Thorne cornered on the main floor, in an office. I’m giving him a chance to surrender.”

“Keep me updated,” I reply. “We’re about to secure Cecily.”

I test the door. Locked. I step aside and let Viktor’s partner attach a small charge. The door blows inward. A startled yelp comes from inside. I step through the smoke and see Cecily Thorne in the corner with her arms raised in defense and her body pressed against the wall. Not cowering—bracing. Ready to take a hit if it comes.

I recognize her from the pictures Seraphina showed me, but she isn’t what I expected. Medium-length, honey-brown hair that hangs loose and tangled around her shoulders, with strands clinging to her skin. Her hazel eyes catch the little bit of light down here, shifting between green and gold as she moves her head. She’s smaller than Seraphina—petite but not delicate—built with a kind of wiry strength that doesn’t break under pressure.

She’s been here too long.

Bruises mark her wrists. There’s a split at the corner of her mouth, and dried blood stains her skin. Her clothes, an oversized shirt and jeans that don’t fit quite right, hang loosely. Signs of weight loss over months of running and captivity.

She should look fragile. She doesn’t.

Even now, with nothing but bare walls at her back and no clear way out, there’s fire in her stare. A woman raised in violence, who knows exactly how dangerous men like me can be. And yet, she meets my gaze without a hint of fear.

Something coils in my chest, but I shake it loose and lower my pistol. “Cecily, we’re here to get you out.”

She blinks rapidly, as though uncertain whether to trust me.

“It’s Dimitri Barkov,” I clarify. “Seraphina’s brother-in-law.”

---