Page 17 of Chased & Bred by the BRATVA
A sleek black car rolls up to the curb, headlights off. A woman stumbles toward it.
Rachel.
My stomach tightens. Even on grainy footage, I can see the hesitation in her body language. The way she rubs at her arms. The pause and glance over her shoulder, looking for her friends, before she climbs inside.
The passenger window is already down, just an inch or so.
I rewind. Slow it down.
The window rolls down a little more. The man inside leans toward her, says something. His face isn’t clear, but I can see the outline of the scorpion tattoo snaking up his neck. Matches her description.
Scarface and his friend.
“I need a plate,” I say.
The bartender fumbles for a notepad. “That camera doesn’t catch the rear—”
“I’ll find it myself.”
I scrub ahead. Another angle catches the car pulling out. The back bumper flashes into frame for half a second, and I freeze it.
There.
It’s blurry, but Aleksei can sharpen it. I snap a photo of the time stamp with my phone and send it to him along with the video file with two words: “Get them.”
No response. That’s how I know he’s already moving.
I don’t stop there.
I spend the next hour moving through bars within a ten-block radius. Places low-level predators crawl through like cockroaches. Places where music drowns out screams and bouncers don’t ask questions if a woman looks drunk enough to disappear.
I flash the photo on my phone.
Anyone who hesitates gets a closer look at the handle of the gun inside my jacket.
Eventually, I find a match.
“He’s been in a few times,” the second bartender says. “Drinks whiskey, no ice. Flirts with anyone that can’t stand up straight. Calls himself Blade.” He makes a face. “Fucking tool.”
“Alone?”
“Nah. Always with some dude who talks less and stares more.”
I get another name. No surnames. JustBladeandJesse. Fake, probably. But it’s enough.
I step out into the alley behind the club and call Roman.
“They’ve been working the circuit for most of the year,” I tell him. “At least five confirmed clubs. Same car, same routine.”
“You think they’ve grabbed before?”
“I don’t think,” I say coldly. “Iknow.”
Silence.
Then: “Aleksei’s tracking the plate now. Shouldn’t be long.”
“Good.” The rage that simmers under my skin almost consumes me. I know I need to work it off before I see Rachel again.
