Page 38 of The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride

“Smart girl,” the distorted, synthetic voice purrs, the digital modulation making it sound cold and inhuman. “You want your boy back? You do exactly what I say. Alone, Ashley. If I see a single shadow of a Rusnak soldier, your son dies. Go to the abandoned shipping terminal at Pier 14. You have forty-five minutes. If you aren’t there—alone—he’s gone.”

The line goes dead.

Panic, sharp and blinding, surges through my veins, but it is instantly overridden by a desperate, maternal resolve. I’ll walk straight into hell if it means getting my baby back. I will go without a second thought.

I dial Samuel’s secure number immediately.

“Ashley?” his deep voice barks through the receiver, instantly alert. “What is it? Did they contact you?”

“They called,” I say, forcing my voice to sound firm, though my hands are shaking violently. “They want me at Pier 14. The abandoned terminal. But Samuel—he was very clear. I have to go alone. If he sees anyone else, if he suspects your men are there, he’ll kill Ethan. I’m going. And you have to stay back.”

There’s a heavy, dangerous silence on the other end of the line. I can hear the violent, controlled rise and fall of Samuel’s chest.

“Ashley, absolutely not—”

“No, Samuel, listen to me!” I gasp, tears of frustration spilling over my lashes. “This is our son’s life! I’m going. I am not letting you risk him. Promise me you won’t interfere. Promise me!”

Another long, agonizing beat passes. When Samuel speaks again, his voice has shifted. It is flat, quiet, and strangely compliant.

“Fine,” he murmurs, though the submission in his tone feels entirely unnatural. “If that is what keeps him safe, you go. I’ll keep my men back. Just be careful, Ashley.”

He hangs up. I take a ragged breath, ignoring the slight chill of unease his easy agreement gives me. I don’t have time to analyze it. Samuel is a father; he knows the stakes.

Ten minutes later, I convinced Sofia and Maya with a lie to wait for me. I’m in my car, tearing toward the edge of the city.

The drive to the industrial sector feels like a descent into purgatory. The bustling city streets give way to cracked asphalt, rusted chain-link fences, and overgrown weeds. By the time I pull into the entrance of Pier 14, the sun is beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long, skeletal shadows across the desolate yard.

I kill the engine. The silence that settles over the area is suffocating.

I step out of the car, my heels crunching on the gravel and broken glass. I look around, my eyes scanning the massive, rusted crane structures and the rows of crumbling brick warehouses.

Nothing.

There’s no waiting car, no shadowy figure standing in a doorway, no sound but the distant, mocking cry of seagulls and the low lap of the harbor water against the rotting wood of the docks.

The absolute emptiness of the desolate terminal creates a sickening sense of unease in my gut. My heart hammers against my ribs. This isn’t a simple hand-off. The isolation is too perfect, the trap too obvious. It’s clear that whatever game the stalker is playing, it’s far from straightforward.

Suddenly, a figure materializes from the deep shadows of the rusted warehouse door.

He wears a dark Scream mask that completely obscures his face, leaving only two crazed, erratic eyes visible. In his hand, the long steel blade of a hunting knife catches the dying sunlight, gleaming with a wicked, terrifying sharpness. He does not keep his distance; he steps directly into my path, his chest heaving under a thin jacket.

“Choose me,” he rasps, his voice raw, frantic, and entirely unhinged—no longer hidden behind a digital modulator. “Choose me now, Ashley! Denounce Samuel. Tell me you do not want him. Tell me you want us!”

My breath catches in my throat, my hands flying up defensively as I stumble backward over the cracked gravel. “I don’t even know who you are!” I scream, my voice cracking with absolute terror. “Where is my son?!”

Instead of answering, a manic, furious sound escapes his throat. He raises the knife, his body lunging forward in a sudden, violent motion to attack.

A bloodcurdling scream tears from my throat.

Before the blade can even descend, the silence of the desolate pier is shattered by the deafening roar of engines and the screech of tires. I know it’s Samuel even before I see him. He never had any intention of staying behind.

“Drop the weapon!” a booming voice roars.

Samuel and his team burst from the surrounding shadows like a waking nightmare, weapons drawn, their heavy boots slamming against the concrete. The masked man freezes, his wild eyes darting from me to the overwhelming force descending upon him. Realizing he is entirely outmatched, he spins on his heel and bolts into the labyrinth of rusted shipping containers.

“Chase him!” Samuel shouts, his deep voice shaking the air as he hits the ground running. “Get him!”

His men scramble after the intruder, but the masked man is terrifyingly familiar with the layout of the abandoned terminal. He leaps over rusted barriers and vanishes into a narrow, decaying crawlspace that the larger tactical guards cannot easily squeeze through. Within seconds, he slips away into the decaying maze of the docks.