Stolen Empire (The Vetrov Chronicles #5)

Chapter 1 Katya

KATYA

The fence gives under my fingers at eleven forty-seven, the chain-link parting where I cut it.

I slip through the gap and crouch against the outer wall of the stable block, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness.

The security guard rotation changed at eleven thirty, which gives me eighteen minutes before the next patrol circles back from the main gate.

Eighteen minutes to get inside, locate the mare, and walk her out through the service exit on the south side where the buyer is waiting with cash I can already feel in my hands.

I memorized the layout during my first two visits.

The main corridor runs straight through the center of the building, flanked by stalls on both sides.

The mare they call Rusalka is housed in the fourth stall from the eastern entrance, and the halter I need is hanging on a hook just inside the tack room three doors down.

I rehearsed this enough times in my head that my feet know where to go even before my brain catches up.

The gravel crunches under my boots as I move along the wall, staying in the shadow of the eaves.

A floodlight mounted near the main entrance lights up the dirt lot, but the rest of the building sits in darkness.

I reach the side door and the knob turns without resistance, so I ease the door open just wide enough to slide through.

The air inside is thick and warm, heavy with the smells of hay and manure and leather.

Horses shift in their stalls, but none of them make a sound.

I pull the door shut behind me and wait, letting the silence settle around me before I move.

My heartbeat is steady, my breathing controlled.

I've done this enough times to know that panic is the thing that gets you caught—not bad luck.

I move down the corridor with my back to the wall, keeping my steps soft.

The stalls are dark, but I can see the shapes of horses inside, their heads turned toward me as I pass.

One of them snorts, a sound that makes my stomach flip, but I keep walking.

The tack room is just ahead, the door half-open, and I slip inside without pausing.

The halter is where I remember it, hanging on the second hook from the left.

I lift it off and test the buckle, making sure it will hold.

The leather is worn but sturdy, and I loop it over my shoulder before stepping back into the corridor.

The mare's stall is ten paces away, and I cross the distance quickly, my fingers already reaching for the latch.

Rusalka is a gray mare with a white blaze down her face, and she watches me as I open the door.

She doesn't shy away when I step inside, and I take that as a good sign.

I've always been good with animals, better than I am with people.

They don't ask questions or demand explanations.

They either trust you or they don't, and this one seems willing to let me close.

I slip the halter over her head and fasten the buckle under her jaw, speaking to her in a calm voice that I hope sounds soothing. "Shh, hey, girl…"

She shifts her weight but doesn't pull away, and I take the lead rope in my hand and guide her toward the stall door.

She follows without resistance, her hooves clicking softly against the floor, and I feel the tension in my chest begin to ease.

The service exit is thirty meters away, straight through the corridor and out the back.

I can see the door from here, the red glow of the exit sign above it, and I tug gently on the lead rope to keep the mare moving.

She comes willingly, her ears pricked forward, and I let myself believe for half a second that this is going to work.

Then the lights come on.

They flood the corridor all at once, blinding me, and I freeze in place and wince as my eyes blink several times.

The mare tosses her head, startled, and I firm up my grip on the rope to keep her from bolting.

My eyes are still adjusting when I hear the footsteps coming from the direction of the service exit.

A man steps into view, and I know immediately that I'm in trouble.

He's compact and broad-shouldered with a broad chest and thick biceps.

His head is buzzed close to the scalp, and his face is all hard angles, a slanted jaw and a heavy brow that makes his eyes look sunken.

Tattoos crawl up his neck and disappear under the collar of his shirt, and he moves toward me with a menacing expression.

My throat constricts.

"Put the rope down," he says in a dark but calm tone.

He doesn't even have to raise his voice to sound like he's in charge.

I don't move.

My fingers are locked around the lead rope, and my mind is racing through options that aren't there.

The exit behind him is blocked, and the door I came through is too far away.

The mare shifts, her breath coming fast, and I force myself to stay still.

"I said put it down."

He takes another step closer, and I can see his eyes now, dark brown and flat. There is no anger in them, no surprise.

The way he's looking at me says he's been expecting me, that my planning and reconnaissance didn't go undetected.

His eyebrows rise and I scoff at him, feeling defeated.

My buyer is going to be pissed, and more than that, if I can't talk my way out of this, I'm going to a gulag.

"I, uh…"

"What are you doing with that horse?" he asks, clasping one hand around the other wrist.

"I'm just walking her," I mutter, but I've got nothing.

For the first time in my life, a job is up and I'm going down for it.

Usually, I have contingencies, back up plans, whatever it takes.

But this was supposed to be a clean in and out.

"Who sent you?" he says, now narrowing his eyes.

"I'm alone," I say, and my insides feel like they're turning to Jell-O. "Nobody sent me."

"You think I believe that?"

He stops three paces away, his arms loose at his sides.

"You broke in here for a horse worth more than you will ever see in your life, and you expect me to think you're working solo?"

"Believe what you want."

I let go of the rope and raise my hands slowly, palms out.

The mare steps sideways, but she doesn't run.

"I'm telling you the truth."

He tilts his head, studying me.

"You scouted this place. You knew the guard rotation, the layout, where the halter was. That takes time and planning. And now you're going to tell me you did all that on your own for what? You just want a pony to ride?"

"Yes."

"Then you are either lying or you are stupid."

He closes the distance between us in two strides, and before I can move, his hand is around my upper arm.

His grip is iron as he hauls me forward with enough force to make my teeth click together.

"Either way, you are coming with me."

I try to pull free, but his fingers dig in harder, and pain shoots up my shoulder.

The mare rears back and races down the corridor toward the main entrance.

The man doesn't even glance at her.

His attention stays locked on me, and he drags me toward a door on the left side of the corridor.

"Let go of me," I snap, and I twist my arm, trying to break his hold.

He doesn't loosen his grip.

He shoves the door open with his free hand and pulls me through, and the room beyond is small and cold, lit by a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.

A desk sits against the far wall, cluttered with papers and a half-empty bottle of vodka, and a chair is tucked underneath it.

He releases my arm and steps back, positioning himself between me and the door.

I rub at the bruise already forming on my skin and glare at him, but he doesn't react.

He leans against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, and watches me with the same flat expression.

"Sit," he says, nodding toward the chair.

"I would rather stand."

"I don't care what you would rather do."

His voice doesn't rise, but the threat in it is clear.

"Sit down."

I hesitate, weighing my options, and then I move to the chair and lower myself into it.

The wood creaks under my weight, and I keep my hands visible, resting them on my knees.

He stays by the door, blocking the only way out.

"Who are you?" I ask, because I need to know who I'm dealing with.

"Dimitri Vetrov."

He says the name as if it should mean something to me, and when I don't react, his mouth tightens.

"This is my family's track, our horses, our operation. And you just tried to steal from me."

I don't answer.

There's no point in denying it, and I'm not about to apologize.

"Who sent you?" he asks again, and this time his tone is harder.

"Nobody."

"You're lying."

"I'm not," I hiss, letting my anger show.

He pushes off the doorframe and crosses the room in three strides.

I lean back in the chair, cowering, but there's nowhere to go.

He plants his hands on the armrests, caging me in, and his face is inches from mine.

I can smell the faint trace of tobacco on his breath, see the scar that cuts through his left eyebrow.

"Listen to me," he says, and his voice drops to a near whisper.

"I have been watching this place for weeks.

Things aren't going how they're supposed to be, and then you show up, dressed in black, cutting the fence, and walking straight to the one horse that would hurt me most if she disappeared.

So you're going to tell me who you're working for, or I'm going to make sure you never walk out of this room. "

I hold his gaze, refusing to flinch, but inside, my guts are roiling.

He's easily twice my size, and though under other circumstances I'd find him attractive, right now, I feel terrified.

"I'm not working for anyone. I saw an opportunity and I took it. That's all."

He studies me for a long moment, his eyes searching my face for any sign of a lie.

Then he straightens up and steps back, running a hand over his scalp.

"You're either the dumbest thief I have ever met or you are very good at pretending."

"Does it matter?"

"It does to me."

He moves back to the door, but he doesn't open it.

Instead, he leans against the frame again, his arms crossed.

"You're not leaving until I figure out what to do with you."

"You can't keep me here," I protest, standing up abruptly.

"I can do whatever I want."

His tone is matter-of-fact, as if he is stating a simple truth.

"This is my property, and you're a criminal who broke in. Nobody's coming to look for you. Nobody even knows you're here."

The words settle over me, and I feel my blood go cold.

He's right.

I have no one waiting for me, no one who will notice if I disappear.

I built my life that way on purpose, and now it's working against me.

"What do you want from me?" I ask, and I hate how small my voice sounds.

"Answers."

He tilts his head, watching me.

"And if you can't give me those, then I'll find another use for you."

I do not move.

"And if I refuse?"

He looks at me with those flat, dark eyes, and I see a flicker of amusement cross his face.

"You don't have a choice."

My throat knots up and I blink back a few tears.

I've had a lot of jobs go wrong, but never like this.

I know the men who run this track, and I've heard their reputation.

This is the worst thing that could happen.

I may not get out of this alive.