Page 6 of Kidnapped Prisoner By the Bratva
Judging the suit and the location, the photo was taken earlier today. I was exposed in the image, and although half my face was shrouded in the dark, the other half was still illuminated by a neon light.
I felt my blood run cold and my jaw lock in.
From that angle, the warehouse was identifiable to anyone who knew where to look and what to look for. Darkness had always been my cover; my operation never saw the light. Until now. This photo online had just put a target on me and my underground operations.
The last thing I needed was for the Feds to come sniffing around, sticking their noses in my business.
Perhaps, this was taken by a rival gang, and I could almost hear the war drums banging in my head.
“Find the photographer,” I said, my voice calm and collected yet laced with venom.
“Yes, Boss.” Viktor walked away.
I returned my gaze to the hanging man, my scowl deepening. “Oleg, Dmitri.”
They stepped forward.
“Show Yegor what we do to liars. And make sure his death is slow and painful,” I ordered, voice dripping with finality.
They nodded.
“No, no, no, please! I’m sorry—please, I’m begging you!” Yegor screamed.
I turned my back on him, a hand in my pocket as I walked away, leaving him to his fate. His screams echoed off the walls, painful and agonizing. But it didn’t matter how loud he shouted for help; no one was coming to save him. No one.
***
Later that evening, at almost midnight, Viktor drove me to the location of the photographer. He pulled over by the sidewalk across a low-budget apartment with weak lighting and paint peeling in strips. A single bulb lit the entrance, casting low, eerie shadows across the clustered steps.
“Second floor,” Viktor said, handing me his iPad. “Fourth room, east wing.” His finger tapped the drone footage playing on the screen.
I watched the window curtains sway in the cool night air as a figure paced the room, their outline caught in the soft light. The wind blew, parting the curtains just enough to let the drone capture the young woman standing by a table reading a book.
Her golden blonde hair spilled over her shoulders as she chewed absently on a pencil, her gaze fixed on the book in her hand. An oversized V-neck sweater shrouded her figure, the sleeves swallowing her arms.
My eyes narrowed as I wondered who she was or what she was doing in the photographer’s room.
“Her name is Wren Maddox,” Viktor said, “a college student who majors in photojournalism. She also owns a blog—the same one she posted the photo on.”
I lifted my head and looked at him. “She’s the photographer?” My voice was tinged with surprise.
“Yes.” He nodded.
I returned my gaze to the iPad’s screen, watching her pace back and forth with moving lips as if she was memorizing something. Judging by the way she threw her hands into her slightly tousled hair, it was clear that she was frustrated with whatever she was reading.
The drone didn’t get a clear shot of her, but the girl I saw in the room didn’t look like someone hired to take those photos of me.
“What do we know about her?” I asked him.
“Other than what I told you? Nothing. She’s clean,” he answered. “No criminal record.”
This girl wasn’t dangerous; she didn’t work for anyone. She was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. She was harmless. But I couldn’t say the same about the photo she took of me.
“Do you want her dead or alive?” Viktor asked me.
I hesitated, shifting my gaze outside the car’s window. In her room, she kept pacing up and down, unaware of the danger lurking in the shadows.
Based on the photos on her blog, she had a gift behind the lens. All her shots were perfect, each one telling a story of its own. She was a talented photographer.
