34. Staged Ambush, Real Kidnapping
Staged Ambush, Real Kidnapping
Vera
The alarms don’t stop.
They layer.
One over another until the penthouse feels like it’s breathing wrong.
“Safe room breach,” Viktor’s voice repeats through the comm.
Roman is already moving.
So am I.
No hesitation.
No time.
“Stay with me,” he says.
“I’m not hiding.”
His eyes flash.
“Not a request.”
We move anyway—together, fast, through corridors that feel narrower than they did yesterday.
Security floods the space.
Weapons drawn.
Controlled chaos.
“This was supposed to be contained,” Roman says into his earpiece. “Who authorized movement?”
“No one,” Viktor replies. “This isn’t our operation—it’s theirs.”
That lands wrong.
Too wrong.
We reach the junction near the safe room access.
Smoke.
Not heavy.
Not accidental.
Tactical.
Gunfire cracks.
Sharp.
Close.
“Contact!” someone shouts.
The world fractures.
Men move.
Shadows collide.
Roman pulls me behind him instinctively, body shielding mine.
“Stay back,” he orders.
“I can help—”
“No.”
The word is absolute.
Another shot rings out.
Closer.
Too close.
The corridor erupts into motion.
A flashbang detonates.
Light explodes behind my eyes.
Sound collapses into a high-pitched ring.
My balance falters.
Roman’s grip slips for half a second.
That’s all it takes.
Hands grab me from behind.
Hard.
Rough.
I twist instinctively.
Elbow back.
Connect.
Someone grunts.
“Got her!”
I fight.
Not panicked.
Trained.
Roman’s voice echoes somewhere—
“Vera!”
I can’t see him.
Smoke.
Bodies.
Chaos.
A hand clamps over my mouth.
Another wraps around my arms.
I bite.
Hard.
Metal fills my mouth—blood.
The grip tightens.
“Don’t damage her!” someone snaps.
Good.
That means they need me alive.
I drive my heel down.
Connect with a shin.
Another grunt.
But there are too many.
Always too many.
Something sharp presses into my neck.
Not a needle.
A warning.
“Stop,” a voice murmurs. “Or we make it hurt.”
I freeze.
Not because I’m afraid.
Because I calculate.
Alive is better.
For now.
They bind my wrists.
Tight.
Efficient.
I’m dragged.
Fast.
Through a side corridor I don’t recognize.
That shouldn’t exist.
Not in Roman’s penthouse.
Which means—
Inside access.
Again.
The realization hits cold.
This wasn’t random.
This wasn’t chaos.
This was planned.
They knew the routes.
The timing.
The drills.
Roman’s operation didn’t fail.
It was already compromised.
A door slams open.
Cold night air hits my face.
I’m shoved into a van.
Dark.
Metal.
The door slams behind me.
Engine roars.
We move.
Fast.
My breathing is uneven.
My head spins from the flashbang.
My stomach twists violently.
Nausea surges.
I swallow it down.
Focus.
Think.
Count turns.
Map direction.
Stay present.
But my body betrays me.
My hand—bound—presses instinctively against my abdomen.
The motion is small.
Subtle.
But it steadies me.
“You’re okay,” I whisper.
The words slip out before I can stop them.
Quiet.
Barely audible.
A prayer.
Not for me.
For something I’m not ready to name.
The van jolts over a turn.
My vision blurs.
I force it back.
Stay awake.
Stay aware.
One of the men shifts closer.
I feel his presence before I see him.
“Easy,” he murmurs.
Too calm.
Too familiar.
I lift my head slowly.
He leans forward just enough for me to see his face.
Clean.
Unremarkable.
Forgettable.
The kind of man no one notices.
That’s what makes him dangerous.
“Orlov sends his regards,” he says quietly.
My chest tightens.
Confirmation.
Not suspicion.
Truth.
“And congratulations.”
My blood runs cold.
Because he’s not looking at my face anymore.
He’s looking lower.
At my stomach.