Page 85 of Baby for the Bratva

The tracking device that’s in every Bratva issued weapon is the only thing saving Stella’s ass right now. She’ll be thankful I made her carry a weapon when she realizes how we were able to locate and rescue her so quickly.

“I figured they’d be trying to get out of the city,” I grumble. “Stay on the line. I’m heading down there. Don’t engage with the target until I say so. We don’t want to hurt Stella.”

“Affirmative. We’re on our way now, and we’re sending a helicopter to follow the van once we have eyes on it.”

“Perfect. Those motherfuckers have kidnapped the wrong woman.” I set down the phone beside me, turning it to speaker so I can hear Chekhov when he has updates.

I turn to the driver, barking orders as I pull back the slide on my rifle, putting a round in the chamber. We’re not that far from the target, and they won’t be driving as fast as we are. We should be able to catch up to them in a few minutes, provided we don’t run into any trouble on the way.

The smell of the engine fills the car as my driver pushes hard on the accelerator, taking us through the winding city streets at a terrifying speed. One wrong move, and we’d slam straight into the side of a brick building, but I trust my driver. He’s far more qualified than anyone committing brazen kidnappings in broad daylight.

It’s confusing but not entirely unexpected that someone would target Stella. Not many people would know about my involvement with her, but if word got out to any of the bounty hunters, I could see why they’d want to use her to get to me.

Nobody seems willing to attack me directly. They don’t have the confidence to pull it off, so they keep coming after people adjacent to me.

It’s infuriating. At this point, I’m ready to fly to Brazil and kill the idiot who put the bounty on my head myself. If I didn’t know that my men were getting close, I’d be tempted to actually do it once I got Stella back to safety.

And if it does turn out to be this Colombian cocaine clown I turned down for a deal, there’s a bullet in my rifle with his name on it.

Maybe three or four, just for good measure.

“They’ve moved over to 15th street,” Chekhov’s voice crackles through the phone.

“Who the fuck names these roads?” I growl.

“I’m not sure. Probably easier for tourists.”

“And a giant pain in the ass for us. Where the fuck is 15th street, anyway? Is that parallel to 14th?”

“Yes, sir.”

I sigh, looking over at my driver. His moody brown eyes are laser-focused on the street ahead. He slows a pit as we turn the corner, but quickly accelerates back to our regular speed as we enter 15th street.

“We’re on their tail,” I say to Chekhov. “Where is everyone? I don’t see a soul out here?”

“We’re on them, but they’ve seen us. They’re getting faster.”

“Shit,” I mutter. “Pull back. Is the helicopter already following?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, definitely pull back. Don’t give them a reason to resort to violence. They can’t drive forever. They might even dump Stella if they realize they’re not able to lose us, but that’s also dangerous if they’re moving too fast. Just… slow down a bit until I get there.”

“Affirmative.”

I grip my rifle hard, feeling the grooves of the rubber grip in my sweaty hands. I’ve never been in a situation where I cared this much about the person at risk. Most people in my Bratva are expendable, and they know that. That’s part of the job, but Stella never signed up for that.

Her life is precious, and I’m willing to sacrifice anything to keep her alive.

I lean forward, studying the road ahead as signs and buildings whizz by so fast they blur into one long streak. My heart slams in my chest, adrenaline pumping through my body as we jump over a hill, losing contact with the street for several seconds before coming down hard.

“Fuck,” I snarl, juggling the rifle on my lap for a moment before getting a grip on it again. My phone slips down beside the seat, but I can still hear Chekhov talking to one of our men on the other end, so I don’t bother fishing it out.

Suddenly, the white van comes into view, along with two other cars following it. They’re all bouncing along the pothole filled road at a much lower speed than I am.

“Slow down,” I bark to my driver. “Get behind Chekhov a little, but let me get a line of sight on the van.”

I aim my rifle at the van as we slow down, trying to get a feel for the difficulty of making a shot through the back door. There aren’t any windows, which makes it more difficult, but if I aim for the driver’s side, there’s a chance I’ll be able to hit whoever is driving the van.

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