Page 97 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva
He hasn’t met the fucking reaper yet.
I kill the headlights blocks before the location and pull off the road into a cluster of overgrown trees. Gravel crunches under the tires. I stop the engine and sit for a second, heart pounding like a war drum.
Yegor wants me alone? Fine. But I won’t walk in blind.
I’m already armed to the teeth, so I step out quietly, the night air hitting me like ice, and shut the door without a sound.
It’s dark. Quiet. Too quiet.
I move through the brush, staying off the road, boots soft on dirt. Every step is measured. Controlled. The warehouse looms ahead—massive, old, industrial. Fenced off and half-eaten by rust.
I crouch behind an abandoned flatbed truck and scan the perimeter.
There they are.
Six guards. One stationed by the gate, the other patrolling near a side door, both armed and alert. They’re looking around, waiting for me. I scan the building again, marking entrances. Weak spots. The rotation of the guards.
I crouch behind an abandoned flatbed truck and scan the perimeter.
There they are.
Six guards total. One at the gate—posture tight, eyes scanning the road. Two near the west wall, rifles slung across their chests. One pacing near the side door, the other two by the loading dock, standing close, talking low but alert. All armed. All ready.
They’re not amateurs. Yegor didn’t send fools to watch his prize.
I study their movements. Count seconds between their rotations. Time their blinks, their distractions. My heart rate slows. I control my breathing.
One by one, I’ll take them down.
I move toward the one near the gate first—he’s the easiest target. I wait until his back is fully turned, then close the distance in a crouch, fast and silent. My arm wraps around his throat, and I drag him into the shadows before he can make a sound. He thrashes once, twice—and goes limp.
I lay him flat in the bushes.
One down.
I move toward the next—the smoker by the west wall. He takes a drag, looks up at the stars. He never sees the blade coming. I press the knife under his chin, slicing clean and fast. He collapses into my arms, a whisper of movement, and I lower him beside the crumbling foundation of the wall.
Two down.
The pair by the loading dock stands too close. I need to separate them. I grab a piece of gravel and toss it across the lot. One of them hears it and steps away to check—just far enough.
I pounce on the distracted one, knife out, jamming it into his side and silencing him with a hand over his mouth. He gurgles softly before collapsing.
The last guy turns around too late—his partner already dead.
He raises his weapon, but I’m faster. One shot. Silencer on. The bullet hits his throat, and he drops like a sack of bones.
Four down.
The one pacing near the side door is next.
I sprint low across the space between us, taking advantage of the shadows. He turns to light a cigarette just as I get behind him. I slam his head into the concrete wall—once, twice—until he goes limp.
Five.
I circle to the far end where the sixth stands, probably wondering why no one’s radioed in. He starts to raise his walkie. I break into a run.
He sees me and shouts, but I tackle him before the word’s fully out. We crash to the ground. His gun clatters away. He fights hard—but I fight harder. I choke him out until he stops moving.
