3. Renat
RENAT
I drop 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 good for 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The training facilities are exactly what I expected—functional but outdated.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 have seen 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."
"And I've seen experienced handlers get crushed because they got careless about positioning."
Her jaw tightens, but she doesn't argue further. Instead, she demonstrates the next exercise, positioning herself slightly farther from Rusalka's shoulder. The adjustment is subtle, but it gives her better leverage on the lead rope and a clearer escape route.
"Better," I say.
"Thanks for the input," she says, but I notice her sardonic tone.
I wonder if I've pushed too hard, if she'll buckle under my criticism, but she continues the exercise with the improved positioning, which tells me she values results over pride. This is another good sign for her potential.
We work through the morning, with me observing and occasionally offering suggestions. Mira accepts most of my feedback without argument, though I can see her evaluating each recommendation before implementing it. She's not trying to please me. She's trying to do what's best for the horse.
In my world, people usually do what's best for themselves, consequences be damned. But Mira's entire focus is on Rusalka's development and well-being. Even knowing her life depends on the mare's performance, she's not rushing the training or cutting corners.
Around noon, she leads Rusalka back to the barn for water and rest. I follow, noting the easy rhythm between horse and handler. Trust runs both ways—Mira trusts the mare not to bolt or strike, and Rusalka trusts Mira not to ask for more than she can give.
"Lunch break," Mira announces, securing Rusalka in a stall with fresh hay.
"Good. I need to check the saddle you plan to use."
She leads me to the tack room, a small space lined with hooks and shelves. Most of the equipment shows its age—cracked leather, faded fabrics, metal worn smooth from years of use. But everything is clean and well-maintained.
Mira lifts a racing saddle from its hook and sets it on a cleaning stand. The leather is supple despite its age, and the stirrups hang evenly. I run my hands over the tree, checking for cracks or weak spots.
"This won't work," I say.
"What's wrong with it?"
"Tree's too narrow. It'll pinch her withers and restrict shoulder movement."
"That saddle's been used on a dozen horses. It fits fine."
"It fits adequately. There's a difference."
Mira crosses her arms and stares at me. "Do you have a better suggestion, or are you just here to criticize my equipment?"
"I'm here to make sure the horse performs. A poorly fitted saddle will cost us speed and potentially cause injury."
"And a new saddle will cost money we don't have."
"The Vetrov stables have extra tack. I can bring something over this afternoon."
"No."
The word comes out sharp and final. I raise an eyebrow, waiting for her explanation, because I'm sure it's going to come. No one backtalks me without being prepared to stand their ground.
"I don't want Vetrov equipment on my horse," she says. "If Rusalka's going to win, she'll do it with our gear."
"That's pride talking."
"That's principle. Your family wants to destroy everything we've built here. I'm not about to dress my horse in your colors while she saves our lives."
I study her face, looking for cracks in the resolve. Her gray-blue eyes are steady, her jaw set. This isn't negotiable for her, even if it hurts her chances.
"Fine," I say. "But if the saddle causes problems, we adjust it. No arguments."
"Agreed."
She hangs the saddle back on its hook, and I notice the careful way she handles it. This isn't just equipment to her—it's part of the family legacy she's fighting to preserve.
"I'll be back after lunch," I tell her.
"Where are you going?"
"Anton and Boris should be here soon. I need to brief them and set up monitoring positions."
She nods and heads toward the house. I watch her walk away, noting the confidence in her stride and the straightness of her shoulders. She carries herself without apology, even in clothes that have seen better days and boots held together with duct tape.
The thought that surfaces next catches me off guard.
I wonder if she knows how men in my position usually deal with women who want something this badly.
How easy it would be to use her desperation as leverage.
To demand favors in exchange for cooperation.
To take advantage of the fire I see burning behind her eyes.
The idea should appeal to me. I've used fear and need to get what I wanted before. It's effective, efficient, and completely within the bounds of how the Vetrov family operates.
But the thought of cornering Mira, of seeing that fierce determination turn to resignation or disgust, makes my stomach turn. She's fighting for something she believes in, not just for herself but for her father and their shared history. There's honor in that, even if the circumstances are ugly.
I shake my head and walk back toward the bunkhouse. Sentiment is dangerous in this business. It gets people killed and jobs left unfinished. I need to focus on results, not on whether I respect the people I'm dealing with.
Anton's truck pulls up the drive as I reach the bunkhouse. He and Boris climb out, carrying duffel bags and a case of surveillance equipment. The men are solid, reliable, and completely lacking in imagination, which makes them perfect for this kind of work.
"What's the situation?" Anton asks.
"Family's got thirty days to train a racehorse. If it wins, they live. If it doesn't…"
"We torch the place," Boris finishes.
"Exactly. I need you watching all approaches to the property. Anyone tries to leave, you stop them. Anyone tries to interfere with the training, you deal with it."
"What about the family?"
"Let them work. But keep your distance. The girl's already suspicious, and the old man's jumpy."
We spend an hour setting up positions and communication protocols. Anton takes the front gate, Boris covers the back road, and I maintain overwatch from the bunkhouse. The setup is simple but effective for our needs.
As we finish, a black sedan turns into the drive.
My blood chills when I recognize the car as Vadim's.
I haven't yet cleared my plan through him and I don't think he's going to be happy with it.
Offering Mira time to train a new horse is mercy, and my family isn't really big on that sort of thing.
If I spin it like a business transaction, I'm sure he'll listen, but it's up to me to sell it now.
"Stay here and keep watch," I tell Anton and Boris. "This is family business."
I walk behind the barn to intercept Vadim before he reaches the house. He's already out of the car, his expensive suit immaculate despite the dust and heat. His face carries the expression I've learned to fear—cold fury barely held in check.
"Explain to me," he says without preamble, "why this barn is still standing."
"The situation required adjustment."
"The situation required fire and gasoline. Instead, I drive out here and find you playing horse trainer with the people who cost us money."
I keep my voice level, professional. "The mare has potential. Real potential. If she wins, we don't just settle the debt with the Karpins—we preserve valuable breeding and training assets."
"And if she loses?"
"Then we step aside and let the Karpins burn it down themselves. They get their revenge, we get the land, and our hands stay clean."
Vadim stares at me for a long moment. I can see him calculating odds, weighing risks against potential gains. The Vetrov family didn't build their empire by being reckless, but they also didn't build it by being overly cautious.
"This horse had better be worth the risk," he says finally.
"She is."
"For your sake, Renat, I hope you're right. Because if this goes wrong, you'll be explaining it to Rolan personally."
The mention of the Pakhan sends ice through my veins. Rolan Vetrov doesn't tolerate failure, especially when it costs the family money or reputation.
"Understood."
Vadim adjusts his cufflinks. "You have the rest of your thirty days. After that, this place burns whether the horse wins or not. The Karpins want closure, and we're going to give it to them."
He walks back to his car without another word. I watch him drive away, dust plumes marking his route back to the main road.
Twenty-seven days remain on our timeline. The clock is ticking, and the stakes just got higher. But as I look toward the training paddock where Mira will soon return to work with Rusalka, I feel something I haven't experienced in years.
Hope.