Chapter 28 Misha
MISHA
The track vibrates with thirty thousand voices raised in anticipation.
Grand Stakes Day brings out everyone, from billionaire oil executives to street-level hustlers clutching crumpled bills and desperate dreams. The crowd presses against the railings three deep, their faces flushed with vodka and adrenaline as they watch the thoroughbreds parade toward the starting gate.
I stand on the mezzanine level, my radio crackling with position reports from Rolan's men scattered throughout the facility.
The elevated view gives me clear sight lines across the betting floor, the grandstand sections, and the maze of service corridors that snake beneath the main structure.
Vera waits behind the main betting counter, her face pale but determined as she scans the crowd for any sign of Sonya Radich.
"Target acquired, sector seven…" Gregor's voice cuts through the static. "Two companions, moving toward the premium boxes."
I lift the small binoculars and find Sonya threading through the crowd near the VIP escalators.
She wears an expensive navy coat and moves with a confident stride.
She actually believes she owns the ground she walks on, and it disgusts me.
Her companions flank her at careful distances, and their bulky frames suggest they carry more than good wishes beneath their jackets.
"Thom, status on the courier?" I ask quietly into my sleeve, where I have my com microphone safely pinned.
"Still positioned at betting window twelve. No movement toward the collection point yet."
The courier interests me more than Sonya herself. Igor handles the actual money transfers, which means he carries evidence that could bury half the Radich operation. His usual pattern involves collecting payouts, but today he arrived early and keeps checking his watch nervously.
The announcer's voice booms across the facility. "Ladies and gentlemen, five minutes left until post time for the Grand Stakes. Please finalize your wagers now."
The crowd surges toward the betting windows.
Bodies press together in dense knots around each counter, and the air grows thick with cigarette smoke and expensive cologne mixed with cheaper aftershave.
Vendors weave through the masses hawking programs and beer, their voices adding to the general din that makes radio communication a challenge.
I key my radio. "All positions, prepare for movement. Target may break pattern early."
Rolan's voice responds from his position near the main entrance. "Copy that. Exit teams in position."
Through my binoculars, I watch Sonya reach the premium level and disappear into one of the private boxes.
She's meeting someone up there, but the angle prevents me from identifying her contact.
The boxes rent for a million rubles per day, which puts her in the company of serious money and political connections.
"Uncle, we have a problem." Thom's voice carries tension that makes my stomach clench. "Courier just broke pattern. Moving early toward exit C."
I swing the binoculars toward window twelve and spot Sokolov pushing through the crowd. He clearly has a target in mind. His face carries a tight expression and he's moving fast. Maybe he's gotten new orders.
"Intercept him," I order. "Don't let him reach the parking structure."
"Moving now."
I watch Thom and another operative converge on Igor's position from opposite directions. They move through the crowd like ghosts, using the natural flow of bodies to mask their approach. Igor doesn't notice them until they're within arm's reach, and by then it's too late for a graceful retreat.
The confrontation happens fast. Thom reaches for Igor's arm, probably intending a quiet escort to a less public location. Igor jerks away and his hand moves toward his jacket. The universal gesture of a man reaching for a weapon sends a chill down my spine.
"Gun!" Thom's shout cuts through the ambient noise, and suddenly, the area around window twelve explodes into chaos.
Igor's pistol clears his jacket, a small black automatic that looks insignificant until he raises it toward Thom's chest. The first shot cracks like a whip, loud enough to penetrate the crowd noise and send the nearest bettors scrambling for cover.
Screams erupt from every direction. The orderly queue at the betting windows disintegrates into a panicked mob as people push and shove toward any available exit.
A woman in a fur coat stumbles and nearly gets trampled before two men drag her upright.
Children cry as parents sweep them up and join the surge toward the doors.
I speak into my radio, keeping my voice steady. "All units, we have weapons fire on the main floor. Contain the situation and maintain perimeter."
But containment becomes impossible as the panic spreads.
The crowd moves like a living thing, flowing away from the gunshots and toward the exits in a human tide that threatens to crush anyone who falls.
Vendors abandon their carts, which become obstacles that trip fleeing patrons.
The smell of spilled beer and trampled food mixes with the sharp odor of fear-induced sweat.
From my elevated position, I can see the full scope of the disaster unfolding below.
Igor fires again, and Thom dives behind an overturned betting stand while his partner returns fire from behind a concrete pillar.
The shots' boom ricochets off the vaulted ceiling, turning the racetrack into an echo chamber of violence.
I abandon the mezzanine and push toward the stairs, fighting against the upward flow of people desperate to escape the main level. A middle-aged man in an expensive suit tries to shove past me, and I grab his shoulder hard enough to leave bruises.
He whimpers and moves out of my way, and I force my way down against the human current, using my elbows and shoulders to create space in the packed stairwell. Bodies press against me from every direction, and the air grows thick with exhaled breath and panic pheromones.
The main floor has transformed into a battlefield.
Overturned chairs and scattered papers litter the polished concrete.
An abandoned wheelchair sits empty near the far wall, its occupant presumably carried to safety by family members.
The electronic betting boards still flash odds and race information, their cheerful displays absurdly normal amid the chaos.
I spot Vera near the main counter, crouched behind the reinforced barrier that separates the betting area from the public space.
She's not running, which simultaneously relieves and terrifies me.
Her green eyes find mine across the distance, and I see determination mixed with fear in her expression.
Movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention.
A man in a dark jacket emerges from behind the service counter, and I recognize Timur immediately.
That sick fuck is going to regret running us off the road.
He stalks toward Vera's position, his hand already reaching for the gun beneath his coat, and I know he won't hesitate to pull that trigger.
Training takes over. I draw my pistol and find a good angle where there's cover to protect myself. The safety clicks off as I raise the weapon, and my finger finds the trigger as I align the sights on Timur's center mass.
The shot takes him in the ribs, spinning him sideways as the bullet tears through muscle and bone.
His own gun fires almost simultaneously, but with his death spin, the bullet flies wide, missing Vera and lodging into the wall behind and above her.
He stumbles against the counter’s edge, blood spreading across his shirt in a dark stain that grows with each heartbeat.
His own weapon clatters to the floor as his legs give out.
"Vera!" I shout over the continuing gunfire from across the floor. "Service tunnel, now!"
She doesn't argue or hesitate. Rising from her crouch, she runs toward the unmarked door that leads to the maintenance areas beneath the facility. Her braid whips behind her as she moves, and I feel a moment of pride at her quick compliance with my order.
The service tunnel door slams shut behind her just as more gunshots erupt from the grandstand level. The sound carries a different quality from the pistol fire below, the deeper bark of rifle rounds that sends fresh waves of panic through the remaining crowd.
"Sonya's making her move." Rolan's voice crackles through my earpiece. "She's got long guns up in the premium level."
I look up toward the private boxes where muzzle flashes strobe against the darkened windows. The glass barrier that separates the premium level from the main floor spider-webs under impact, and fragments rain down on the people still trapped below.
The air fills with cordite smoke, the acrid chemical smell that clings to everything after sustained gunfire. It burns my nostrils and coats the back of my throat, mixing with dust kicked up by running feet and the metallic tang of spilled blood.
"How many shooters?" I ask into my radio while moving toward better cover behind a concrete support pillar.
"At least three, possibly four. They've got the high ground and clear fields of fire across the main floor."
A rifle bullet pings off the pillar near my head, showering me with concrete fragments. The Radich crew isn't trying to escape cleanly anymore. They're making a stand, which means they're either desperate or confident in their ability to fight their way out.
I key my radio again. "Status on perimeter security?"
"Exits are sealed. Nobody gets out without our approval."
"Good. Tighten the net and watch for Sonya trying to slip away in the confusion."
Another burst of rifle fire tears chunks out of the pillar above me. The shooters have discipline and patience, taking aimed shots rather than spraying bullets wildly. Military training or extensive criminal experience. Either way, they're more dangerous than panicked amateurs.
Through the chaos, I catch glimpses of my men moving through the crowd, their dark clothing distinguishing them from the fleeing civilians. They advance by sections, using cover and mutual support to close distance on the gunmen above.
The betting boards flicker and die as a stray bullet finds the main electrical panel. Emergency lighting kicks in, bathing everything in harsh white illumination that creates sharp shadows and eliminates the subtle gradations that help eyes track movement.
Below on the track, horses are being led quickly back toward the stables and owners and jockeys alike are panicked.
A woman's scream cuts through the gunfire, high and piercing enough to penetrate the general noise.
I spot her near the overturned concession stand, blood streaming from a scalp wound while a man tries to pull her toward the exit.
Civilian casualties were inevitable once the shooting started, but each one represents a failure of planning and control.
"Gregor, report," I demand into my radio.
"We've got them cornered in box seven. Two confirmed down, unknown number still active."
"Don't let them reach the service elevators. If they get into the lower levels—"
The transmission cuts off as another rifle bullet impacts near my position. This one comes from a different angle, suggesting the shooters have split up to create crossfire zones. Basic military tactics applied to urban combat.
I sprint from my cover toward the next pillar, drawing fire that impacts the floor behind me in a line of concrete dust and sparks. The distance closes to thirty meters, then twenty, bringing me within effective range for my pistol.
The first target appears in the broken window of box seven, his rifle barrel tracking across the floor in search of new prey. I put two rounds into his chest before he can acquire a target, and he disappears backward into the darkened interior.
"Tango down," I report into my radio.
"Copy. Box seven cleared. Moving to box eight."
The gunfire begins to slack off as my men eliminate the shooters one by one.
The Radich crew fight with heart but lack the coordination and firepower to hold their positions against organized opposition.
Within minutes, the sharp crack of rifles gives way to sporadic pistol shots and finally, to an ominous quiet.
Emergency sirens wail in the distance, growing louder as police and ambulance crews race toward the racetrack. The authorities will arrive soon, which means we need to finish this operation and establish plausible narratives before they start asking difficult questions.
"All stations, status report," I order.
The responses come back quickly. "Sector one clear." "Sector two clear." "Three shooters down, one in custody."
But no mention of Sonya herself.
"Where's the primary target?"
"Unknown. She wasn't in any of the boxes when we cleared them."
My jaw clenches as I realize we've been played. The shootout was a distraction, a way to occupy our attention while Sonya escaped through channels we hadn't anticipated. The woman has more tactical awareness than I gave her credit for.
I speak into my radio with controlled fury. "Find her. Check every exit, every service corridor, every hiding place in this facility. She doesn't leave here alive."