23. Renat
RENAT
T he dead man's blood has dried under my fingernails by the time I reach my truck.
I pull on work gloves and pop the tailgate, revealing the blue water drum I loaded this morning.
The kind used for livestock feed storage.
Big enough. Deep enough. Anonymous enough to disappear into any industrial waste pile.
I roll the Karpin enforcer's body into the drum, arms folded across his chest, legs bent at the knees.
Head tilted to fit the opening. I've done this before at least a few dozen times, none quite so difficult as the first. The geometry of death is always the same—reduce a man to his smallest possible space and seal him away from the world.
The feed tarps go in next, wrapped tightly around him until he looks like nothing more than bundled supplies.
Industrial-grade duct tape seals the lid, layer after layer until no air can get in or out.
When I'm finished, the drum could be full of grain or fertilizer or anything else you'd find behind a racetrack.
I should've done this days ago, but here I am, securing it in the truck bed with cargo straps and driving through the Moscow suburbs toward the dump site.
The roads are empty at this hour, nothing but streetlights and the occasional delivery truck making early runs.
My coat reeks of gunpowder and smoke, but I don't roll down the windows.
The smell is honest. It matches what I've become.
The old burnt-out factory sits on the outskirts of Mytishchi, sprawling across forty hectares of what used to be farmland. I know the layout. Every blind spot. Every camera angle. Every place where security doesn't bother to look.
The back lot is where they store maintenance equipment and waste containers. Row after row of industrial drums, chemical tanks, and machinery that only gets used when something breaks. Perfect cover for one more container that nobody will question.
I back the truck up to the storage sheds and kill the engine. The silence greets me, broken only by the distant hum of highway traffic. No guards patrol this section. No cameras watch the maintenance area. Corporate oversight stops at the property line.
The drum is heavier than it should be, but dead weight always is.
I roll it off the tailgate and guide it between two rusted tractors toward the excavation pit behind the main shed.
The pit is fifteen feet deep, dug for a septic expansion project that ran out of funding three years ago.
Now it collects rainwater and debris that nobody bothers to clear.
Perfect grave for a man who won't be missed.
I tip the drum over the edge and listen to it crash into the standing water below.
The sound echoes off the concrete walls, then fades into nothing.
I shovel loose gravel from the equipment pile, one painstaking shovel full at a time, until the blue plastic disappears beneath a layer of gray stone.
It takes me the better part of an hour, but it is easier to fill in a pit than to dig a grave.
More debris goes on top. Broken pallets. Shredded tarps. Empty solvent canisters that reek of industrial cleaner. And in under a second hour, the pit looks like every other waste dump on the property—chaotic, neglected, forgotten.
I wipe the shovel clean and toss it back onto the equipment pile. My body is drenched in sweat from the hard labor, and my shoulders ache after the beating I've given them the past twenty-five days. Killing that man should feel like crossing a line, but it doesn't. It feels like Tuesday.
That's the problem. And it's the reason Mira is avoiding me.
I think about her distance and the way she's been pushing me away and being secretive as I drive back to the track.
I park in the employee lot and walk through the service entrance, past empty cubicles and dark conference rooms. The fluorescent lights flicker on automatically as I move through the halls, motion sensors tracking my progress toward the executive floor.
Vadim requested this meeting. Demanded it, actually, in the text message that arrived while I was disposing of evidence. Three words.
Track office. Now.
I find him in the director's conference room, standing at the wall of windows that overlook the main track. Even at this late hour, he's dressed for business—tailored suit, polished shoes, gold watch. But his shoulders carry tension that expensive fabric can't hide.
He turns when I enter, and his expression makes my jaw tighten.
"Close the door," he says.
I shut it behind me and flip the lock, then turn as Vadim says, "You stink."
"Had work to do."
"What kind of work?"
I pull off my coat and drape it over a chair. The smoke smell disperses through the room, mixing with everything else. He's right. I reek of sweat and body odor. "The kind that needed doing."
Vadim's eyes narrow. "Be specific."
"Karpin sent a man to the ranch last night. He came to kill the horse." I meet his gaze and I don't flinch.
"And?"
"He won't be killing anything again."
The words drop between us like an anvil. Vadim goes absolutely still, the kind of stillness that precedes violence or breakdown. When he speaks again, his voice is deadly quiet.
"You killed him."
"Yes."
"On Petrov property?" His eyes darken to an inky black.
"Yes."
"Where anyone could have seen…"
"But no one did," I assure him, but it's no good.
Vadim crosses the room in three strides and backhands me across the face. The blow rocks my head to the side, splitting my lip against my teeth. Blood pools on my tongue, and I taste copper and salt.
I don't move. Don't flinch. Don't raise my hands to defend myself.
"You fucking animal," he snarls. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"
I straighten up and meet his eyes. "I protected our interests."
"Our interests?" His laugh is ugly. "You think our interests include open warfare with the Karpins?"
"They started it when they sent men in to kill Mira in her own barn… When they sent someone to dose the horse."
"They sent a message. You sent a corpse."
I wipe blood from my mouth with the back of my hand. "The message was received."
Vadim stares at me as if I've lost my mind. Maybe I have. Maybe sanity is a luxury I can't afford when Mira's life hangs in the balance.
"The Karpins are threatening to torch the entire facility," he says. "Not just the Petrov ranch. The whole track. Every stable. Every office. Everything we've built here."
"Let them try."
"They have thirty men, Renat. Thirty armed men who want blood for what you did." Vadim is livid and his nostrils make his nose look like a pig's snout. But if I call him a disgusting swine for his part in what's happening to Mira and Yuri, this will end with a bullet in my head.
"Then we give them blood."
The second backhand comes harder than the first, snapping my head around with enough force to rattle my teeth. This time, I taste more than blood—I taste the copper tang of a split cheek.
"You think this is a game?" Vadim's voice rises to a shout. "You think we can absorb that kind of loss?"
I roll my tongue across the inside of my mouth, cataloging damage. Nothing broken. Nothing that won't heal. "I think the Karpins are testing us. And if we back down now, they'll know we're weak."
"We are weak, you idiot. That's why we made the deal with them in the first place."
"The deal was payment in the form of a horse. We're giving them payment. It's not my fault Rolan fucked up the balance of power by killing that sick fuck who deserved it." I wipe my mouth again, but there's more blood than my hand can manage.
"A horse they don't want anymore. A race they expect us to lose."
I lean forward, putting my hands flat on the conference table. "Then we don't lose."
"The animal isn't ready. You said so yourself."
"I said she needed time. But time's up, isn't it?" My head hangs, cheek throbbing, and I try to keep myself calm.
Vadim begins pacing behind his chair, agitation radiating off him in waves.
"You don't understand the politics here, Renat.
This isn't about horses or racing or debts.
This is about territory. The Karpins want control of this facility, and they're using our obligation to them as an excuse to take it. "
"Then we stop them."
"How? You want to start a war we can't win?"
"I want to finish one we didn't start." I'm furious. "That man came on our turf and dosed a member of our family. We hunted him down. That was when we were even. They're taking this too far."
He stops pacing and fixes me with a stare that could cut glass. "You're talking about suicide."
"I'm talking about survival."
"Whose survival? Yours? The Petrovs'? Or the family that's kept you alive since you were sixteen years old?"
The question slaps me hard because he's right, and we both know it. I've been making decisions based on what I want instead of what the family needs. I've been choosing Mira over duty, conscience over loyalty.
But I can't stop. Won't stop. Not when she's finally looking at me like I might be worth saving.
"The horse will win," I say.
"You can't guarantee that."
"I'm guaranteeing it anyway."
Vadim's expression shifts from anger to something darker. Something calculating. "What makes you so certain?" He straightens his tie and narrows his eyes at me.
"Because I've seen her run. Because she's faster than anything the competition can field. Because losing isn't an option."
"And if you're wrong?" Vadim's not asking about the horse anymore. He's asking about consequences. About what happens when guarantees fail and promises turn to ash.
"I'm not wrong," I say.
"But if you are?"
I meet his eyes and give him the only answer I have. "Then you do what you have to do."
Vadim nods slowly, as if I've confirmed something he already knew. "The race is in four days."
"I know."
"Four days to produce a miracle."
"I know," I repeat, and it's like signing my death warrant.
"And if that miracle doesn't happen, the Karpins get their pound of flesh. Starting with you."
I don't flinch, don't look away. "I understand."
"Do you? Because I'm not talking about exile or demotion or some other slap on the wrist. I'm talking about a bullet in your skull and a shallow grave next to your new friends, the Petrovs."
The threat is designed to terrify me and make me run away scared, plead for my life, cower before him like a sniveling baby, and it doesn't.
Instead, it crystallizes something I've been avoiding since this whole mess began.
"Fine," I say.
"Fine?"
"Four days. The horse wins, or we all die together."
Vadim blinks, as if he expected me to crack under pressure. "You're serious."
"Dead serious."
"This is about the girl."
It's not a question, so I don't answer. But something in my expression must confirm his suspicion, because his mouth twists into a bitter smile.
"Christ, Renat. I always knew you were a romantic under all that muscle, but I never thought you'd be stupid enough to die for it."
"Maybe I won't have to."
"Maybe you will."
He walks to the windows again, hands clasped behind his back. Outside, the first hints of dusk are creeping across the horizon, painting the empty track in shades of gold and amber.
"Four days," he says without turning around.
"Four days," I agree.
"And if the horse loses, I personally put the bullet in your brain."
"Fair enough."
"No last-minute deals. No desperate bargains. No begging for mercy."
"Understood."
He turns back to face me, and for a moment I see something that might be regret in his eyes. Or maybe it's just exhaustion.
"Get out of here," he says. "Go train your miracle horse. And pray to whatever god you still believe in that she's fast enough to keep us all breathing."
I pull my coat back on and head for the door. Behind me, Vadim continues staring out the windows, watching the sun rise over a track that might burn to the ground in less than a week.
The hallway lights flicker off as I leave, motion sensors returning the building to darkness. But I carry the weight of that conversation with me, heavy as a corpse in a water drum.
Four days to save everyone I've ever cared about.
Or four days until I join the dead man in his concrete grave.