Page 60 of Savage Reins
The drum is heavier than it should be, but dead weight always is. I roll it off the tailgate and guide it between two rusted tractors toward the excavation pit behind the main shed. The pit is fifteen feet deep, dug for a septic expansion project that ran out of funding three years ago. Now it collects rainwater and debris that nobody bothers to clear.
Perfect grave for a man who won't be missed.
I tip the drum over the edge and listen to it crash into the standing water below. The sound echoes off the concrete walls, then fades into nothing. I shovel loose gravel from the equipment pile, one painstaking shovel full at a time, until the blue plastic disappears beneath a layer of gray stone. It takes me the better part of an hour, but it is easier to fill in a pit than to dig a grave.
More debris goes on top. Broken pallets. Shredded tarps. Empty solvent canisters that reek of industrial cleaner. And in under a second hour, the pit looks like every other waste dump on the property—chaotic, neglected, forgotten.
I wipe the shovel clean and toss it back onto the equipment pile. My body is drenched in sweat from the hard labor, and my shoulders ache after the beating I've given them the past twenty-five days. Killing that man should feel like crossing a line, but it doesn't. It feels like Tuesday.
That's the problem. And it's the reason Mira is avoiding me.
I think about her distance and the way she's been pushing me away and being secretive as I drive back to the track. I park in the employee lot and walk through the service entrance, past empty cubicles and dark conference rooms. The fluorescent lights flicker on automatically as I move through the halls, motion sensors tracking my progress toward the executive floor.
Vadim requested this meeting. Demanded it, actually, in the text message that arrived while I was disposing of evidence. Three words.
Track office. Now.
I find him in the director's conference room, standing at the wall of windows that overlook the main track. Even at this late hour, he's dressed for business—tailored suit, polished shoes, gold watch. But his shoulders carry tension that expensive fabric can't hide.
He turns when I enter, and his expression makes my jaw tighten.
"Close the door," he says.
I shut it behind me and flip the lock, then turn as Vadim says, "You stink."
"Had work to do."
"What kind of work?"
I pull off my coat and drape it over a chair. The smoke smell disperses through the room, mixing with everything else. He's right. I reek of sweat and body odor. "The kind that needed doing."
Vadim's eyes narrow. "Be specific."
"Karpin sent a man to the ranch last night. He came to kill the horse." I meet his gaze and I don't flinch.
"And?"
"He won't be killing anything again."
The words drop between us like an anvil. Vadim goes absolutely still, the kind of stillness that precedes violence or breakdown. When he speaks again, his voice is deadly quiet.
"You killed him."
"Yes."
"On Petrov property?" His eyes darken to an inky black.
"Yes."
"Where anyone could have seen…"
"But no one did," I assure him, but it's no good.
Vadim crosses the room in three strides and backhands me across the face. The blow rocks my head to the side, splitting my lip against my teeth. Blood pools on my tongue, and I taste copper and salt.
I don't move. Don't flinch. Don't raise my hands to defend myself.
"You fucking animal," he snarls. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"
