21. Renat #2
I find a position along the ridge that gives me clear lines of sight to the ranch buildings below.
The main barn is clearly visible, as is the bunkhouse and most of the yard between them.
Anyone approaching the property will have to cross open ground, making them easy targets for someone with the right equipment and the will to use it.
I settle into a prone shooting position, the rifle steady on its bipod. Through the scope, the ranch below looks peaceful, almost pastoral. But I know better than to trust appearances. Somewhere in the darkness, armed men are moving closer, carrying death in their hands and murder in their hearts.
Mira sits beside me, her knees drawn up to her chest. I can feel the tension radiating from her, the barely controlled fear that comes with waiting for violence to begin.
She's never done this before—never sat in the dark waiting for someone to die.
The knowledge that her innocence is about to end sits heavily in my gut.
"How long do we wait?" she asks.
"As long as it takes."
"And if they don't come?"
"They'll come."
My certainty seems to unnerve her, but I know the Karpins better than she does, and I trust Anton's intel.
I know their methods, their timelines, their preference for striking when their targets feel safest. They'll come between two and four in the morning, when sleep is deepest and reflexes are slowest. They'll move quiet and fast, expecting to find the horse undefended and vulnerable.
They're going to be disappointed.
Time crawls past with agonizing slowness.
Mira shifts position every few minutes, unable to find comfort on the hard ground.
I remain motionless, my eye pressed to the scope, watching for any sign of movement below.
The rifle is an extension of my body, familiar and deadly, ready to deliver judgment at the touch of a finger.
At 2:47 a.m., I see him.
A shadow moving between the buildings, too purposeful to be anything innocent.
He's alone, dressed in dark clothing, carrying what looks like a veterinary bag.
Not here to kill the horse, then—here to drug it.
Make it test positive for performance-enhancing substances, disqualify it from the race, eliminate any chance of the debt being settled cleanly.
Smart. Cleaner than murder, harder to trace back to the Karpins. And just as effective at achieving their goals.
I track him through the scope as he approaches the main barn.
He moves well, keeping to the shadows, avoiding the areas where security lights might expose him.
Professional work, the kind of infiltration that takes training and experience.
This isn't some street thug they've hired—this is a specialist.
Which makes what I'm about to do feel less like murder and more like a professional obligation.
"There," I whisper to Mira, not taking my eye from the scope. "Main barn, approaching from the east side."
She follows my gaze, squinting into the darkness. It takes her a moment to spot the moving shadow, but when she does, I feel her go rigid beside me.
"What's he carrying?"
"Drugs. Probably something that will show up in her blood work, disqualify her from racing." I adjust my grip on the rifle, finding the perfect shooting position. "Same result as killing her, but with less mess."
The operative reaches the barn door and begins working on the lock.
Even from this distance, I can see the focused efficiency of his movements.
He's done this before, many times. Probably spent years breaking into places he didn't belong, taking things that weren't his, leaving destruction in his wake.
Tonight, that pattern ends.
I center the crosshairs on his head, compensating for distance and wind. The shot isn't difficult—clear line of sight, stationary target, perfect conditions. At this range, the bullet will arrive before the sound, giving him no chance to react or escape.
"Don't look," I murmur to Mira.
"What are you?—"
The rifle cracks, the sound rolling across the valley below. Through the scope, I watch the operative's head snap back, his body crumpling to the ground in the boneless way that only comes with instant death. The veterinary bag spills open beside him, vials and syringes scattering across the dirt.
Mira screams.
The sound is sharp and piercing, cutting through the night air with the force of genuine horror. I drop the rifle and spin toward her, my hand clamping over her mouth before she can make another sound.
"Quiet," I hiss against her ear. "There might be others."
But she's not listening. Her eyes are wide with shock, her whole body trembling against mine. She's seen death before—every rancher has, animals die all the time—but she's never seen murder. Never watched another human being reduced to meat and bone by a single bullet.
Never seen what I'm capable of when pushed.
"He was going to destroy her," I say, trying to keep my voice calm and reasonable. "Drug her, disqualify her, take away any chance you had of saving this place. I stopped him. I protected what's ours."
She pulls away from me, crawling backward until she hits the fence post behind her.
When she looks at me, there's something in her eyes I've never seen before.
Not fear, exactly, but recognition. She's finally seeing me clearly, understanding what I really am beneath the veneer of gentleness I've been showing her.
"You killed him," she whispers.
"Yes."
"Just… shot him. Without warning. Without giving him a chance to surrender or run or?—"
"This isn't a movie, Mira. This is real life, where hesitation gets good people buried and mercy is a luxury we can't afford.
" I keep my voice steady, but inside I'm falling apart.
The look in her eyes is destroying me piece by piece.
"If I'd let him drug Rusalka, if I'd let him destroy your chance at the race, what would have happened then? "
"I don't know, but?—"
"You'd have lost everything. The race, the ranch, probably your life. The Karpins would have taken it all, and there wouldn't have been anything left to save." I take a step toward her, and she flinches back. Her reaction is destroying me. "I did what needed doing. I protected what matters."
"By committing murder."
Her words feel ugly and unavoidable, but that's what it was, regardless of justification or necessity.
I took a life, ended a human being's existence with a single bullet.
The fact that he was here to harm us, that he would have destroyed everything Mira has worked for, doesn't change the fundamental reality of what I've done.
"This is my world," I say quietly. "Violence, death, people who solve problems with bullets instead of words. I tried to keep you separate from it, tried to protect you from having to see what I really am. But there's no hiding anymore."
She stares at me, and I can see her mind working, trying to reconcile the man who carried her to bed last night with the killer who just ended a life without hesitation. The cognitive dissonance is tearing her apart, and there's nothing I can do to make it easier.
"If you can't live with this," I continue, hating every word but needing to say them, "if you can't accept what I am and what I do, then we have no business trying to be together.
Because this won't be the last time. As long as you're with me, as long as you're in danger because of who I am, there will be more nights like this one. "
The brutal honesty of the statement seems to break something inside her.
She turns away from me, moving toward where Rusalka stands peacefully grazing, oblivious to the violence that has just saved her life.
When Mira reaches the mare, she grabs a handful of mane and swings herself onto Rusalka's back with fluid grace.
"Mira—"
But she's already gone, urging the mare into a gallop that carries them both down the narrow trail toward the ranch below.
I watch them disappear into the darkness, leaving me alone on the ridge with a cooling corpse in my view and the growing certainty that I've just destroyed the best thing that ever happened to me.
The irony is bitter and complete. I finally found something worth fighting for, something that made me want to be better than what I am. And in trying to protect it, I've revealed exactly why I'll never deserve it.
This is what it means to love someone in my world. This is the price of caring about anything more than survival. You end up hurting the people you're trying to save, destroying the relationships you're fighting to preserve.
I pick up the rifle and begin the long walk back to the bunkhouse, a killer standing alone in the dark, wondering if the life I saved was worth the love I've probably lost.