Page 95 of His Stolen Bride

Fear doesn’t always do the job. Sometimes, it makes men freeze because they realize they’re about to die either way.

“Drop it,” Enzo says.

The rifle man hesitates.

I take one step forward. “If you lift that barrel, you die.”

The rifle man swallows and lowers his weapon slowly. The pistol man follows, hands shaking. Enzo takes them, pushes them against the wall, strips weapons, zip ties wrists. No speeches. No revenge.

We aren’t here for them. We’re here for her.

The marker shifts again, moving down a stairwell, into the lower level. Enzo looks at me. “You think he’s got a medical room down there?”

“He does,” I answer, and I keep walking.

The bought medical officer was the last piece. I didn’t approach him first. I approached the men who keep him fed. A doctor on Vladimir’s payroll isn’t loyal. He’s paid to keep assets functional and to make people last.

When I offered him an out, he asked one question.

Will you kill me if I say yes?

I told him the truth. “Not if you do your job.”

Down the stairs, we reach a heavy door at the bottom that has a keypad. I already know the code, and I feed it in quickly. It opens without resistance. Enzo’s voice stays low. “If she’s hurt…”

I don’t answer. If I answer, I’ll say something that will make me reckless. The corridor is lined with closed doors. One has a red light over it. Another has a camera above it, but the camera is angled oddly.

A man steps into the hallway in scrubs, pale, hands up before we even point a gun at him.

He’s not one of ours. He’s Vladimir’s. “I didn’t touch her,” he says quickly. “Not like that.”

Enzo snorts. “You want a medal?”

The doctor’s eyes flick to me. “She’s sedated. That’s it. I did it myself.”

“Where?” I ask.

The doctor points to the door with the red light. “In there. He was here. He left about twenty minutes ago, but I’d be quick about it.”

I move to the door. Enzo’s hand catches my sleeve once. “Mikhail.”

“What?”

“You go in, you keep your head.”

I look at him, slightly annoyed. “Don’t lecture me.”

He doesn’t flinch. “Don’t make me drag you out of there.”

That’s as close as Enzo gets to caring out loud. I nod once and push the door open to a small, clinical room with a bed and a monitor. Beside the bed is a table with a tray of syringes. Attached to the north wall is a small sink.

My wife is on the bed, wrists loose at her sides, hair spread on the pillow. Her face is pale. Her lips are parted slightly like she’s fighting for air and losing. My chest goes tight in a way I hate.

I’m at her side in two steps. My hand goes to her throat, not to hurt her, to check her pulse. It’s there. Fast. Strong enough.

The capsule marker shows she’s still transmitting. Good.

Her eyelids flicker once, like she hears something and can’t reach it.