Page 71 of Savage Reins
"Tell our people to stay ready but don't initiate. Let the Karpins make the first move, then." I'm not used to giving the orders, but it's like Vadim has fallen apart. I don't know who he is right now. The fear of death is a stench on his entire being.
Vadim stares at me as if I've grown a second head. "And if they decide to end this with bullets instead of betting slips?"
The truth is simple and ugly—if the Karpins choose violence over sport, there's nothing any of us can do to prevent the slaughter that follows.
"Then we make sure they pay a price they're not prepared to accept."
"You mean war."
"I mean standing our ground."
Vadim shakes his head but doesn't argue. He recognizes that expression on my face, knows what it means when reason abandons me entirely. A voice crackles through speakers mounted around the complex, official and authoritative despite the chaos surrounding us.
"Ladies and gentlemen, due to the emergency situation, race start time has been delayed by thirty minutes. All horses and riders must report to staging area two for revised documentation checks."
Revised documentation checks? If officials are re-examining paperwork, looking more carefully at registration materials and identification tags, any deception Mira has attempted will be discovered within minutes.
And discovery means death. Not clean death, not quick death, but the kind of prolonged, creative brutality that the Karpins reserve for people who dare to cheat them.
I spot Mira near the staging gate, still holding Rusalka's lead rope but now surrounded by officials in those damning yellow vests. They gesture toward clipboards and folders, asking questions that she answers with carefully controlled responses.
From this distance, I can't tell if she's maintaining her composure or screaming internally. Can't see if whatever deception she's constructed is holding under scrutiny or crumbling like wet paper.
But I can see the Karpin soldiers moving closer to the staging area, tightening their noose around whatever trap they believe they're springing.
This is it. Whatever she's done, they're going to discover it now.
"What's going through your mind?" Vadim asks, and I feel my throat constrict.
I don't answer immediately. Instead, I watch Mira hand documents to a stern-faced official who studies them with the intensity of a man looking for reasons to destroy lives. Watch her maintain eye contact and steady hands while her entire world balances on the edge of annihilation.
She's magnificent in her terror. Breathtaking in her willingness to gamble everything on a single desperate throw of loaded dice.
"If she's done something to rig this race," I whisper, but Vadim doesn't hear me and I'm glad. Whatever she's cooking up, it's not good, and I can't protect her if shit hits the fan.
The official hands Mira's paperwork back to her, apparently satisfied with whatever lies she's constructed. She nods and leads Rusalka toward the mounting area, each step carrying her deeper into the labyrinth where only one path leads to survival.
Around us, the racetrack prepares for violence disguised as entertainment. In the stands, thousands of spectators place final bets on outcomes they don't understand, their money feeding a machine designed to consume hope and excrete despair. On the track itself, maintenance crews clear debris from the morning's emergency while security teams position themselves for whatever bloodbath might follow.
The air tastes of smoke and fear and the metallic tang that precedes massive violence. Officials try to restore order to chaos that has its own momentum, its own terrible logic. Emergency crews battle flames that shouldn't exist, investigating a fire that was never supposed to happen.
But chaos creates opportunities that don't exist in ordered worlds. In the space between disaster and recovery, between normal procedure and emergency protocol, small miracles can occur.
Or small betrayals can succeed long enough to make space.
I watch Mira move through the crowd like a ghost navigating purgatory, leading Rusalka toward whatever fate awaits them both. The horse follows her without question, trust absolute despite the smoke and noise and human panic surrounding them. They move together with the synchronization of partners in a dance, each anticipating the other's needs, each willing to follow wherever this dark path leads.
Even if it leads straight into hell.
"There," Vadim says, nodding toward the far side of the complex. "More of Dima's people. They're not even trying to hide anymore."
I follow his gaze and count at least eight additional shooters, all armed, all positioned to have clear sight lines on critical areas. They want to be seen, want us to understand that whatever happens during this race, they're prepared to respond with overwhelming, indiscriminate violence.
The mathematics of survival have never looked worse.
But they don't account for love, don't measure the power of someone who has chosen to die rather than watch the person they love suffer.
"How long until post time?" I ask.
