Page 69 of Bratva Stalker Kidnaps His Bride

Mikhail slows, tilting his head almost imperceptibly.

“What?” I ask nervously.

“The lights.”

I follow his gaze to see half the corridor illuminated by harsh white fluorescents while the remaining stretch sits in shadow because three fixtures have gone dark.

Burned out?

Or...

“They've been shot,” I realize finally seeing the tiny fragments of broken glass glitter beneath the dead lights.

Mikhail's expression hardens.

“Keep moving.”

We cross the intersection together, every muscle inside me coiled tightly enough to ache. My attention shifts constantly between doors, ceiling vents, narrow service passages barely wide enough for one person to squeeze through.

In my peripheral vision, something moves. Someone disappears behind an open maintenance room before I fully register the shape.

“There!”

One of the operatives pivots immediately, advancing several careful steps before checking the room.

“Clear.”

Whoever I saw is already gone.

“I wasn't imagining it,” I grumble.

“I know you weren't.” His certainty steadies me.

Another metallic crash erupts somewhere farther down the corridor, purposeful, like equipment being loaded.

“They're evacuating.”

Mikhail nods once.

“Which means we're close.”

We increase our pace.

The building begins changing around us almost immediately. Reinforced doors replace ordinary ones. Security cameras appear every few meters, several hanging uselessly after having been disabled in haste. Fresh drag marks streak faintly across the concrete floor, disappearing beneath another heavy doorway.

My eyes remain fixed on them.

"Wheelchair.” When he glances at me inquisitively, I explain, pointing downward while we continue moving, “The pattern: those aren't crates. They're narrower. Two parallel lines.”

Mikhail studies them only briefly before understanding settles across his face.

“Hospital transport. They moved prisoners.”

That’s not comforting either.

The corridor bends sharply; beyond it lies another reinforced security door standing half open. One hinge hangs crooked.

The electronic lock sparks intermittently, filling the stale air with the bitter smell of burnt circuitry. Mikhail crouches beside the damaged panel.