Page 2 of Sin Wager
Everyone seems more alert, more watchful. Conversations end abruptly when strangers approach. People glance over their shoulders more frequently, as if expecting unwelcome attention. The change is subtle but unmistakable—the ecosystem of the track adapting to a new predator in its midst.
I stop at the betting window after settling Koschei in the paddock, my hand finding the folded paper in my pocket. The clerk behind the glass looks up expectantly, his face showing the bored patience of someone who has processed thousands of similar transactions. He doesn't know me by name, but he recognizes the routine—single woman, moderate bets, consistent losses that suggest recreational gambling rather than professional involvement.
"Race three," I say, my voice steady despite the drumming of my heart. "Fifteen hundred on Midnight's Glory to win."
The amount is larger than my usual bets, but not dramatically so. Sonya has been careful to increase the stakes gradually, avoiding sudden jumps that might attract attention. The clerk marks the ticket and slides it across the counter without comment, and I fold it into my wallet.
"Race seven," I continue. "Two thousand on Devil's Bargain to place."
This time the clerk pauses, his pen hovering over the form. Two thousand represents more than I make in a month of stable work, but my face reveals nothing of the anxiety clawing at my chest. I've learned to project calm confidence, to appear as someone making informed choices rather than following instructions I barely understand.
The ticket joins the first in my wallet. Two bets placed, two more to go before noon.
Movement catches my peripheral vision. A man leans against the far wall of the betting area, his attention focused in my direction. Tall, lean build, wearing a dark coat that has seen better days. His face remains partially shadowed by the brim of a wool cap, but his posture suggests he's used to watching people. There's a stillness to him—a hunter watching his prey. It makes goosebumps rise on my arms.
I force myself to turn away, to focus on walking back toward the paddock where Koschei waits for his exercise session. My steps remain even, unhurried, giving no indication that my nerves have pulled as taut as piano wire. The man might be security. He might be one of Vetrov's people, already cataloging faces and patterns. He might be nothing more than a regular patron studying the odds and wondering why a stable hand is placing bets that exceed her apparent means.
But in my world, assuming the best case has become a luxury I can't afford.
The morning exercises continue around me as I work with Koschei, leading him through his warm-up routine while my mind races ahead to the remaining bets, to the questions that might come, to the careful balance I must maintain between survival and discovery. The gelding responds to my guidance with his usual intelligence, but I catch him glancing toward the betting area where the watching man still maintains his vigil.
Animals sense danger before humans do. They read body language and environmental changes with instincts honed by millions of years of evolution. If Koschei notices the watcher, then the threat is real enough to register on the most primitive levels of awareness.
"Easy, boy," I murmur, running my hand along his neck. The contact calms us both, horse and human finding comfort in the simple exchange of trust and reassurance.
The remaining morning passes like any normal morning. I place the final two bets during my lunch break, varying the times and approach routes, choosing different windows to avoid establishing obvious patterns. The watching man disappears sometime after eleven, but his absence feels more ominous than reassuring. Predators don't abandon their territory. They simply change their hunting strategies.
The stable door closes behind me with a sound that feels too much like a trap snapping shut. I remove Koschei's lead rope and hang it on its hook, my hands moving through familiar motions while my mind races through scenarios and possibilities. The paper in my pocket represents more than today's instructions—it's evidence of a pattern that a skilled investigator could trace back through months of carefully concealed activity.
Three races completed, three more scheduled for tomorrow. Three more chances for the new bookie to notice patterns that could unravel everything. Three more steps deeper into a game I never wanted to play but can't afford to lose.
2
MISHA
The numbers tell a story that makes my teeth ache. I lean back in the worn leather chair behind the desk that belonged to my predecessor—may his soul find peace in whatever hell awaits men who steal from family—and study the betting patterns spread across three computer screens. Twenty-seven days of data, each transaction logged.
The same woman appears in the records with clockwork regularity. Moderate stakes, strategic timing, wins that cluster around races where the odds shift unexpectedly in the final minutes before post time. Not every bet, which would be obvious. Not random selections, which would be natural. A pattern calculated to extract maximum profit while maintaining the appearance of recreational gambling by someone with more luck than sense.
Vera Kovalenko. Twenty-five years old according to the background check I commissioned through channels that don't keep official records. Ukrainian immigrant, a stable hand, clean criminal record, no known associates in organized crime. On paper, she represents exactly the kind of mark that rival crewslove to cultivate—desperate enough to be useful, naive enough to be expendable.
The door opens and Vadim strolls in casually, pulling out the chair opposite mine. He's stopped by a few times since I took on this task, and he has more threats than instructions most of the time.
"The Kovalenko woman," he says, settling into the chair across from my desk. "Three weeks of surveillance. What do you see?"
I turn one of the monitors toward him, highlighting the transactions in yellow. "She's not working alone. The betting amounts follow a progression that suggests external funding. The horse selections require information she couldn't access through stable work alone, and I've had her followed. She doesn't have money for this herself."
"Radich?"
The Radich crew has been testing boundaries for months, probing for weaknesses in our operations… parasites seeking fresh hosts. They specialize in turning innocents into unwitting accomplices, building networks of dependency that serve their interests while providing plausible deniability, and when those innocents become less useful, they dispatch them without mercy.
"The pattern fits their methodology," I confirm. "Use locals with legitimate access, provide them with funding and information, extract profits while maintaining distance from direct involvement. If the operation collapses, they lose an expendable asset rather than valued personnel."
Vadim nods, his fingers drumming against the armrest. "The losses total four hundred thousand rubles over six weeks. Unacceptable."
Four hundred thousand represents more than revenue—it represents credibility, territorial control, the perception ofstrength that keeps rival crews from testing boundaries and internal dissidents from questioning authority. In our world, financial bleeding attracts predators with the certainty of wounded prey drawing sharks.
"I want the source," Vadim continues. "Not the woman—she's a tool, nothing more. I want the hands that guide her, the voices that whisper instructions, the minds that believe they can bleed us without consequence."
