Page 54 of Savage Reins
"Ready?" I ask, knowing Yuri is sound asleep in the house where he is completely ignorant of what's happening. I think that I should've sent him away, but from my vantage point, I'll be able to keep any unwanted intruders away from him, hopefully.
She nods, like she's not trusting her voice. Together we lead Rusalka from her stall, moving slowly to make as few sounds as possible. The mare seems to sense the tension, her ears pricked forward and her steps light and quick. Horses always know when violence is coming, even when humans try to pretend otherwise.
The night air is crisp against my face as we slip through the side paddock and begin the climb toward the upper pasture. The path is narrow and steep, winding between stands of pine trees that provide cover but also limit visibility. Every shadow could hide a threat. Every sound could be the approach of enemies.
But we make it to the ridge without incident, emerging into the open grass of the upper pasture. The field stretches away from us, dark and seemingly empty except for the water trough gleaming dully in the starlight. It's perfect—isolated enough to keep Rusalka safe, elevated enough to give me clear fields of fire on anyone approaching the ranch below.
Mira releases the lead rope, and Rusalka moves away from us with obvious relief. The mare knows this pasture, has grazed here before, and she settles near the water trough with the confidence of familiarity. From here, she's invisible to anyone approaching the ranch. From here, she's safe.
If everything goes according to plan.
"Now what?" Mira asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Now we wait."
I find a position along the ridge that gives me clear lines of sight to the ranch buildings below. The main barn is clearly visible, as is the bunkhouse and most of the yard between them. Anyone approaching the property will have to cross open ground, making them easy targets for someone with the right equipment and the will to use it.
I settle into a prone shooting position, the rifle steady on its bipod. Through the scope, the ranch below looks peaceful, almost pastoral. But I know better than to trust appearances.Somewhere in the darkness, armed men are moving closer, carrying death in their hands and murder in their hearts.
Mira sits beside me, her knees drawn up to her chest. I can feel the tension radiating from her, the barely controlled fear that comes with waiting for violence to begin. She's never done this before—never sat in the dark waiting for someone to die. The knowledge that her innocence is about to end sits heavily in my gut.
"How long do we wait?" she asks.
"As long as it takes."
"And if they don't come?"
"They'll come."
My certainty seems to unnerve her, but I know the Karpins better than she does, and I trust Anton's intel. I know their methods, their timelines, their preference for striking when their targets feel safest. They'll come between two and four in the morning, when sleep is deepest and reflexes are slowest. They'll move quiet and fast, expecting to find the horse undefended and vulnerable.
They're going to be disappointed.
Time crawls past with agonizing slowness. Mira shifts position every few minutes, unable to find comfort on the hard ground. I remain motionless, my eye pressed to the scope, watching for any sign of movement below. The rifle is an extension of my body, familiar and deadly, ready to deliver judgment at the touch of a finger.
At 2:47 a.m., I see him.
A shadow moving between the buildings, too purposeful to be anything innocent. He's alone, dressed in dark clothing, carrying what looks like a veterinary bag. Not here to kill the horse, then—here to drug it. Make it test positive for performance-enhancing substances, disqualify it from the race, eliminate any chance of the debt being settled cleanly.
Smart. Cleaner than murder, harder to trace back to the Karpins. And just as effective at achieving their goals.
I track him through the scope as he approaches the main barn. He moves well, keeping to the shadows, avoiding the areas where security lights might expose him. Professional work, the kind of infiltration that takes training and experience. This isn't some street thug they've hired—this is a specialist.
Which makes what I'm about to do feel less like murder and more like a professional obligation.
"There," I whisper to Mira, not taking my eye from the scope. "Main barn, approaching from the east side."
She follows my gaze, squinting into the darkness. It takes her a moment to spot the moving shadow, but when she does, I feel her go rigid beside me.
"What's he carrying?"
"Drugs. Probably something that will show up in her blood work, disqualify her from racing." I adjust my grip on the rifle, finding the perfect shooting position. "Same result as killing her, but with less mess."
The operative reaches the barn door and begins working on the lock. Even from this distance, I can see the focused efficiency of his movements. He's done this before, many times. Probably spent years breaking into places he didn't belong, taking things that weren't his, leaving destruction in his wake.
Tonight, that pattern ends.
I center the crosshairs on his head, compensating for distance and wind. The shot isn't difficult—clear line of sight, stationary target, perfect conditions. At this range, the bullet will arrive before the sound, giving him no chance to react or escape.
