Chapter 24 Misha
MISHA
The ledger spreads across my computer in perfect rows of fabricated numbers, each entry a breadcrumb leading straight to my trap.
I drag my cursor through columns of false markers, seeding losses that never happened, wins that will never pay out.
The math tells a story—an emergency payout requiring immediate attention, too large for wire transfers, demanding a cash delivery.
Sonya will never actually watch these races to see the horse cross the finish line.
She will only ever watch the numbers, and the transmission I'm sending is foolproof.
I sit in my office with shoulders stretched as taut as piano strings.
The track hums with afternoon preparation, trainers calling to their charges, hoofbeats drumming against packed earth.
Normal sounds masking the abnormal business I conduct secretly.
The entire organization, except for Vadim, myself, and a handful of my crew, remains completely unaware that we are mere minutes away from letting the trap snap shut.
We'll catch the Radich bitch in the act and purge the sport of the corruption she's set up in one fell swoop.
I close the window and reach for my phone to call it in, and Vadim answers on the second ring.
"The numbers are ready," I tell him. "I've sent word through the staff and those who are loyal to us are ready. We're baiting her with a forty-thousand-dollar cash payout. There's no way she can resist."
"When?"
"It's going down tonight…" My body is coiled to strike. I've watched what this crew has done long enough to know the only way to get them to back off is with blood. I won't stand around and watch them spill more of it.
"Make it clean, Misha. I'm counting on you to keep this track profitable…
" Vadim has given me enough leash to choke myself and sometimes, it feels like he's hoping I do.
But that's the nature of this family and the beast of the organization we run.
Things line up, or they are forced in a new direction.
"Understood," I grunt, then I end the call and lean back in my chair, studying the ceiling stains from roof leaks and neglect. The trap is set. Now I wait for rats to crawl out of their holes.
Twenty minutes pass before my phone buzzes and interrupts my careful analyzation of the plan.
Nikolai's name appears on the screen, and I consider letting it ring.
If my plan works, we'll have finished the task he's been ordered to make sure I complete.
But if I ignore him, he may show up in the middle of it and be caught off guard.
The fixer's voice grates through my skull even when he isn't speaking.
"Barinov?"
"Misha, I hear interesting rumors about emergency payouts." So the news is filtering through the networks. Good. It means by now, Sonya has heard of the fake win and will already be putting her plan to come collect into motion. An amount that large, she won't trust to just anyone.
"Rumors travel fast," I tell him, and my fingers tap lightly on the desk.
"Too fast. This feels reckless." Nikolai isn't wrong, but I don't have time to explain my reasoning to him.
I light a cigarette and blow smoke toward the window. "Reckless gets results."
"Dead bookies get nothing. The family will grow tired of your methods, Misha. We discussed alternatives to your current arrangement."
His veiled threat is spoken loud and clear. I'm easily replaceable. But I know that order doesn't come from my nephew, which gives me a hint of leverage over this hired hand who thinks he can push me around.
"Alternatives cost more than solutions," I say.
"Not always. Some problems solve themselves when the right pressure is applied. Your woman, for instance. Replaceable. Expendable."
My grip tightens on the phone, knuckles going white. "Careful, Nikolai."
"Careful is what keeps us alive. Tonight had better produce answers, or we start asking different questions."
The line goes dead, and I set the phone down and finish my cigarette, letting nicotine burn through my lungs while rage burns through my veins. Nikolai is playing his games, but tonight I play mine.
I call Gregor first, then Thom with simple instructions—parking, positions, clear fields of fire, radio silence until bullets fly. All of it is routine stuff. They know their business and stakes. Both of them understand that survival means shooting first and asking questions later.
By six o'clock, shadows consume the track's back lot and I find Vera in the equipment barn, oiling saddle leather.
She works with focus like she's trying to block out the world, but her hands show a tiny tremor.
I hate putting her in harm's way, but it's the only option we have.
Sonya would see anything else coming from a mile away, and even as it is, she may suspect Vera now.
Sonya knows something is happening between us.
"We move in ten minutes," I tell her.
Her green eyes find mine, searching for reassurance I cannot give. "The drop?"
"The trap." I hand her a canvas bag stuffed with newspaper and play money. "This goes nowhere near the real exchange. You stay close to me, do exactly what I say, and we both walk away."
She nods, but I can see the apprehension in her posture. Fear creeps through even the bravest facades when death starts circling.
We walk to my car under falling darkness.
The track grounds are quiet on this side of the property, but the stands roar with spectators cheering on horses in their heats.
The parking deck is five levels of shadows and blind corners.
Perfect hunting ground for predators who think they hold the advantage, but desperately difficult to defend against without knowing where the enemy may be.
I park on level two and kill the engine. Above us, fluorescent lights flicker against oil-stained concrete, casting irregular pools of sickly yellow wherever the bulbs aren't broken or burnt out. The structure feels abandoned despite cars scattered across multiple levels.
"Remember," I tell Vera, "you stay behind me. You do not run unless I tell you to run. You do not speak unless I tell you to speak."
"I understand," she says, almost a whisper. I can feel her anxious tension. Her eyes flick nervously from my face to the dark entrance in the far corner of the garage where we expect Sonya to materialize.
I check my Makarov and chamber a round, flick the safety to off.
Then I think of how terrifying it must seem to her, to see a man she thought was just a businessman who owns horses turn into some violent machine right before her eyes.
My conscience, however, is so stained with the guilt of the dozens of lives I've taken, all I can manage is a soft nod and a sigh.
There is no time to reassure her or bolster her sense of confidence.
She either shows up to this fight or she doesn't. Nothing I say now will change her level of readiness.
We climb the stairwell to level three and at the landing, I pause and listen.
I hear nothing but distant traffic and the building's mechanical heartbeat.
Vera clings to my backside. Her body is close to mine, but the sweet hints of her perfume don't overpower the stench of exhaust and burnt motor oil from the garage.
I guide Vera to a position near the central support columns, concrete pillars thick enough to stop rifle rounds, and my radio crackles—Gregor's voice comes through the static. "There's movement on the ramp. A black sedan with no plates."
I check my watch to see that they came early, which means they came ready to kill instead of talk. Smart predators scout their prey before striking. They’re here to set up before they think we'll arrive.
"Positions," I whisper into the radio, and I watch Vera press her eyes shut.
"Are you okay?" I ask gruffly, and she nods a tight and stiff acknowledgment. As if she had time to get out of this, anyway. There is nowhere to run or hide.
The sedan crawls up the ramp, but I hear it before I see it. The tinted windows hide the occupants, but I count at least three shapes inside. The vehicle stops fifty meters away, angled for quick escape.
"That's not how this works," I call out. My voice carries in the hollow space, bouncing off the walls, and it makes Vera jolt with fear.
Doors open and three men emerge from the vehicle. The driver remains behind the wheel, ready to punch the accelerator. They spread into a loose triangle, hands inside their coats, reaching for weapons. They move in an organized way, like men who've been trained to do this their whole lives.
"You have our money?" The leader steps forward, and the light reveals a scarred face.
Vera steps into the open, letting the light shine on her face, and before I can think, the negotiation is over. The leader's hand emerges from his coat gripping a suppressed Beretta. I dive left, pulling Vera down as the muzzle flashes before the shot's report can be heard.
The first rounds chew chunks from the wall above our heads. I roll behind cover and return fire while Vera covers her ears. The leader spins and drops, blood painting the sedan's windshield in arterial spray.
More shots come from the stairwell, Thom engaging a flanking gunman who tried to circle behind us. The radio crackles with gunfire and shouted commands.
A bullet whines off the concrete inches from Vera's face, leaving a white scar in the pillar. She presses against the wall, eyes wide, and I see blood on her sleeve, likely from falling. I don’t have time to go to her, but I open fire on the men to lay cover fire.
"Get to the pillar," I shout at her over the roar of shots ringing out.
The second gunman advances, firing controlled pairs that force me to tuck back deeper behind my cover. Professional discipline, textbook tactics. But professionals make mistakes when rage clouds their judgment.