Page 84 of Savage Reins
Mira doesn't know they're here because ignorance might keep her alive if this goes badly and I end up feeding the crows instead of protecting what matters most to me. Plausible deniability becomes a shield when bullets stop flying and investigators start asking questions about who killed whom and why.
The sound reaches me first through the mist, engines growling low and aggressive across gravel that crunches beneath heavy tires. I check my weapons one final time with the methodical care that keeps soldiers alive when death comes calling. Rifle loaded, safety off, scope zeroed for the distances this property offers. Pistol snug in its holster, magazine full, one round chambered. Blade secure against my boot, edge sharp enough to part silk or throats with equal ease. Everything positioned for quick access because hesitation kills more men than enemy bullets ever will.
Two black SUVs emerge from the tree line, their windows tinted dark as coal. They make no attempt at stealth or subtlety because Lev wants me to know he is coming, wants me to feel the weight of his numbers pressing against my resolve, the inevitability of violence crushing any hope of peaceful resolution.
The vehicles stop fifty yards from the gate, their engines idling while doors open and men emerge into the morning air. Eight of them, armed with automatic weapons and confidence because eight men against one represents impossible odds. I recognize Dima despite the bandages wrapped around his broken nose, can see the fresh cast on Alexei's right arm whereI snapped bone against bone. The others present new faces, but their movements tell stories I have read many times before in many places where men kill other men for money or pride or simple hatred.
Lev climbs from the lead vehicle wearing an expensive coat over tactical gear, trying to look respectable while conducting the business of murder. His presence transforms the morning from tense to deadly because I understand now that negotiation was never an option, that this confrontation will end only when one side lies bleeding in the gravel.
"Vetrov!" His voice carries across the distance between us, sharp with authority and cold with the promise of retribution. "We have come for what belongs to us by right and by debt."
I step forward so he can see me clearly, rifle visible but not yet aimed because the moment I raise that barrel, this conversation transforms into killing and killing allows no words afterward. "Nothing here belongs to you or your family."
"The horse belongs to us. The girl belongs to us. Your life belongs to us. All debts requiring collection before this morning ends."
"The horse won that race fairly and honestly. The debt was settled when she crossed the finish line first."
"The horse won through fraud and deception, which makes the debt larger rather than smaller." Lev gestures to his men, who spread into a loose formation designed to surround and overwhelm through superior numbers and coordinated fire. "Surrender now, and we will make this quick and clean instead of drawn out and messy."
"I have a counter-offer that you should consider carefully before rejecting." I raise the rifle, letting the scope find Lev's chest, watching his face change when he realizes death has sighted him through glass and metal. "Get back into your vehicles and drive away from this place. Never return to threatenwhat belongs to me. Die old and comfortable in your beds instead of young and bloody in foreign soil."
Lev laughs. "Eight against one, Vetrov. Poor odds for the defender."
"I have faced worse odds and walked away while my enemies fed the vultures."
"Have you truly?" He signals his men with a gesture I recognize from my own days commanding killers. "We shall discover the truth of that claim together. Kill him and bring me his head."
The first mistake belongs to Dima, whose eagerness for revenge makes him careless in ways that professional soldiers learn never to be. He steps into the open ground between the vehicles, raising his weapon with the triumphant smile of a man who believes victory is assured, presenting a clean target through my scope as if he wants to die first and fastest.
I don't hesitate or think or feel anything beyond the cold mathematics of trajectory and wind speed. The rifle kicks hard against my shoulder, the heavy round traveling across fifty yards to take Dima through his left eye, snapping his head backward in a spray of bone and brain matter that paints the SUV behind him in abstract patterns of red and gray. He drops without making a sound, his weapon falling from nerveless fingers as blood pools beneath his ruined skull.
Alexei screams his cousin's name, abandons whatever cover he had found, charges toward me with his good arm extended and rage making his movements predictable. Grief transforms him from professional killer into emotional amateur, and amateurs die quickly in situations that demand cool thinking and steady hands.
My second shot catches him center mass, the heavy round punching through his chest with enough force to lift him off his feet and spin him sideways through the air. He hits the groundhard, gasping and clutching the hole where his lungs used to function properly, blood frothing on his lips as he discovers what dying feels like when bullets tear through vital organs.
The remaining six scatter like startled birds, diving for cover behind their vehicles as reality replaces confidence. Muzzle flashes spark in the morning mist as they return fire, their bullets whining past my position to gouge chunks from the wooden gate posts and bury themselves in earth that will drink their blood before this morning ends.
I roll left behind the stone fence that has protected this property for three generations, using its solid bulk to absorb the incoming rounds while my men open fire from their concealed positions. Anton's rifle cracks from behind the hay bales, and one of the Karpins jerks backward as his shoulder explodes in a burst of red tissue and shattered bone. Boris sends carefully aimed rounds from the loft, forcing two men to abandon their position behind the SUV and seek cover that offers less protection.
"Contact left!" one of them shouts in Russian, his voice high with the terror of men who realize they have walked into a trap instead of an execution. "They have support positions! Multiple shooters!"
Fear creeps into their voices as understanding dawns that this is not the easy murder they expected, that they are trapped in open ground between my rifle and crossfire from concealed positions they never spotted during their approach. The arrogance that brought them here begins to crumble under the weight of superior tactics and preparation.
I advance along the fence line, using its protection while closing the distance, letting the rifle scope bring their faces into sharp focus. I can see fear replacing confidence, desperation replacing arrogance, the moment when professional killers realize they are about to become corpses instead of collectors.These men came here to murder an innocent woman in her own home, and now they are learning the true cost of that choice.
One gunman breaks from cover, sprinting toward the main barn where Mira hides, probably hoping to take her hostage and use her life as leverage for his own survival. He makes it ten yards across open ground before Ivan's shot takes his legs out from under him, shattering both kneecaps and dropping him screaming to the gravel. The man writhes and sobs, clutching his destroyed joints while his weapon lies forgotten in the dirt beside him.
"Poshchada!" he cries out in Russian, his voice breaking with pain and terror. "Mercy! Please! I surrender! I have children!"
His plea dies as Boris puts a round through his throat from the loft, silencing his voice forever because men who come to kill women deserve no mercy when their own lives hang in the balance. The body twitches once and goes still.
The sound of breaking glass echoes across the yard as someone shoots out the SUV windows, trying to create better firing positions through desperate improvisation. These are the tactics of men who are losing, who understand their situation has shifted from hunting to being hunted across ground that favors their enemies at every turn.
Lev takes cover behind the engine block of the lead vehicle. "Flank them! Circle around the barn! Find better positions!"
Two gunmen attempt to follow his command, breaking from cover to sprint toward the stables in a maneuver that might have worked against untrained defenders. They make it three steps before intersecting fire from Anton and Boris cuts them down in the open ground, their bodies dropping where they fall as blood seeps into the morning frost that will melt beneath the heat of their dying.
The mathematics of violence have shifted dramatically in our favor. Eight became six when Dima and Alexei died first. Sixbecame four when my men claimed their targets. Four became three as another gunman catches a round in the chest while trying to reach better cover, his expensive tactical gear providing no protection against bullets that care nothing for the cost of equipment or the training of the men who wear it.
