Page 5 of Captured By the Bratva

I hit the pavement hard, a bolt of pain ripping through me as I crash against the asphalt. My head strikes the ground, and everything blurs—lights, shadows, the sting of cold air biting into my skin.

My body feels leaden, bruised, every inch of me radiating pain that pulses in time with my racing heartbeat.

I lie still, barely able to breathe, my vision darkening at the edges. I taste blood, sharp and metallic. The road stretches out before me, empty and silent. Jimmy’s car has stopped a few yards in front. He swings the door open just as another car slows, pulling over beside me.

Jimmy glances at me and then the other car. “Jimmy,” I call out, my voice failing. “Help me.”

He looks suddenly afraid, glancing at the other car. “Please,” I manage to say as he gets in. “Don’t leave me.” My eyesight cuts out an instant later. All I can see is darkness.

I hear the other car’s engine die, then the sound of a door opening, and then footsteps—calm, measured, growing closer.

I blink, things coming slowly into focus. A dark figure leans over me, and I can just make out the shape of a man, tall and broad-shouldered, his face shadowed by the night.

“Can you hear me?” he asks, his voice deep with a Russian accent, phone already going up to his ear. “Keep still.”

I try to respond, to nod or say something, but all that escapes is a weak, shallow breath. My body feels heavy, my voice trapped somewhere inside the pain.

I hear him speak into the phone, his voice clipped, efficient. “Yes, 911? I’m on County Road 16, a mile past the bridge. I’ve got a female, early twenties.

“Concussion, possible fracture of the clavicle, and lacerations to the forehead and left arm. She’s responsive but disoriented. Thrown from a moving car. I was behind them… No, the driver’s gone. No, I didn’t get a good look at him.”

That part was a lie, I can tell. Why is he lying? Does he know Jimmy?

A shiver runs through me. Words slip into my foggy mind—concussion, fracture, lacerations—strangely clinical, like something I’d hear in a hospital. Who is he? A doctor? Must be. Who else would talk like that?

He listens to the dispatcher, nodding slightly. “She’s in shock; respiration is rapid but shallow. Advise the response team to bring a cervical collar.”

He leans over me again, his hand resting carefully against my shoulder, keeping me steady. “Try not to move,” he says. “You’ll probably end up with a limp for a while but it looks like your spine’s all right.”

“How can you tell?” I think I say but all that comes out is a grunt.

My vision blurs, and I feel a cold sweat breaking out along my skin. His hand remains steady, and his voice, though calm, carries a warmth that cuts through the pain.

“It’s okay. You don’t need to talk,” he says gently, but his eyes narrow as he assesses me, his gaze sharp and focused, scanning me with a precision that makes my head spin. “Try to keep your eyes open.”

There’s something almost unsettling about how methodical he is, how he knows exactly what to check, what to say.

“Help’s on its way, Cathy. You’ll be all right.”

I cling to that voice, letting the warmth of his words wrap around me, a strange comfort in the cold emptiness of the night.

My body begins to relax, surrendering to the pull of darkness, but a question enters my mind just as the world slips away.

How does he know my name?

4

CATHY

Two months later…

The office reception feels unnaturally bright, fluorescent lights washing out the colors and giving everything a harsh, sterile glow.

I glance around, taking in the other people seated around me—polished, put-together professionals who look like they were born knowing how to hold their shoulders back and keep their faces calm.

I feel conspicuous enough in my frayed navy blazer, my hands fidgeting with the strap of my only bag, my fingers tracing its worn edges. That’s before I even compare myself to the other interviewees.

I shift in my seat, wincing as the pain in my leg flares up. It’s been two months since the accident, and a month since I got out of hospital. My leg still hurts, a dull relentless ache that serves as a reminder of how close I came to losing more than just my pride.

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