Page 7 of Savage Reins
The words hit harder than any Mafia threat. Because I know he means them, and tomorrow might be our last normal conversation.
"I love you,Batya."
"I love you too, little bird."
3
RENAT
Idrop my duffel bag on the narrow bed in the bunkhouse loft and survey the room. A single window faces the training arena, bare walls surround me, and a wooden floor spreads beneath my feet. It's not much, but I've slept in worse places. The important thing is the clear sightlines to both the house and the barn.
I pull out my phone and dial Anton's number, unsure of why I'm even giving this woman a chance to prove herself.
"Need you and Boris and Ivan out here," I tell him when he answers. "You'll be doing ranch surveillance. Bring your gear and plan to stay a week." My eyes focus on the flimsy mattress that has a threadbare sheet as I speak. I hope this doesn't take more than a week for her to give up. My back is going to hate me.
"What kind of surveillance?"
"The kind where people don't run away in the middle of the night."
"Understood. We'll be there in two hours."
I hang up and check the window again. From here I can see most of the property—the main house, the barn, the training paddock, and the road leading in. The position is goodfor monitoring movement but bad if someone decides to get creative. I may be a sitting duck. The Karpins aren't known for finesse, however. They bulldoze their way toward any goal they have, so there's a slim chance they'd get past me and my guys, but if they want to get pushy, we'll be outnumbered. Having the vantage point of higher elevation is a necessity.
I shake off the feeling and head outside to inspect the property.
The perimeter fence runs along three sides of the ranch, with the fourth side bordered by a drainage ditch. Most of the posts are solid, but I find two sections where the wire is loose and one gate that doesn't latch properly. Nothing that would stop a determined intruder, but enough to slow them down.
The training facilities are exactly what I expected—functional but outdated. The half-mile dirt track circles behind the barn, its surface packed hard from years of use. The starting gate sits at one end. Its paint is faded and several springs are missing from the door mechanisms. An old wooden grandstand with weathered gray boards faces the home stretch. The whole place is rundown, but somehow, Yuri and his daughter have managed to keep it running.
I climb the steps to get a better view of the layout. From up here, I can see the entire operation. It's small, primitive compared to the Vetrov facilities, but there's something honest about it. No fancy electronic timing systems or climate-controlled barns. Just horses and people doing what they've done for centuries.
Movement in the training paddock catches my attention. Mira leads the mare in slow circles on a lead, and she's so patient yet controlled as she talks to it in low words I can't hear. She looks fresher than yesterday—worn jeans that hug her legs, a faded blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled up, boots that haveseen better years. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a loose braid, and dust already coats her arms from working with the horse.
I watch her guide Rusalka through basic exercises. The mare responds to subtle pressure from the lead rope, turning left and right on command, stopping and starting with minimal cues. Good signs. Horses that learn groundwork quickly usually adapt to racing faster.
Mira glances up and sees me watching from the grandstand. She doesn't wave or smile, just acknowledges my presence with a brief nod before returning her attention to the horse. She's professional, and I respect that quality.
I climb down and walk to the paddock fence. Up close, I can see the concentration on Mira's face as she works. Every movement is deliberate, every command clear. She's not just going through motions—she's reading the horse's responses and adjusting her approach accordingly.
"How's she responding?" I ask.
"Better than expected. She's curious about new exercises instead of nervous. That's a good temperament for racing."
Mira leads the mare to the center of the paddock and asks her to stand square. Rusalka shifts position until her legs are evenly placed, then holds the pose while Mira examines her conformation from different angles.
"She's got good balance," I observe.
"She's a natural athlete in every movement. See how she distributes her weight evenly across all four legs? Most horses favor one side or the other, but she's centered."
I study the mare's stance and see what Mira means. Rusalka stands with confidence, her head up and ears forward. The horse is alert but not tense, ready but not anxious.
"Your footing needs work," I tell Mira.
She looks down at her boots, then back at me with raised eyebrows. "Excuse me?"
"In the arena. You're standing too close to the horse's shoulder when you ask for lateral movement. If she spooks toward you, you won't have time to get clear."
"I've been working with horses since I was six."
