Page 73 of Sin Wager
The announcer's voice booms across the facility. "Ladies and gentlemen, five minutes left until post time for the Grand Stakes. Please finalize your wagers now."
The crowd surges toward the betting windows. Bodies press together in dense knots around each counter, and the air grows thick with cigarette smoke and expensive cologne mixed with cheaper aftershave. Vendors weave through the masses hawking programs and beer, their voices adding to the general din that makes radio communication a challenge.
I key my radio. "All positions, prepare for movement. Target may break pattern early."
Rolan's voice responds from his position near the main entrance. "Copy that. Exit teams in position."
Through my binoculars, I watch Sonya reach the premium level and disappear into one of the private boxes. She's meeting someone up there, but the angle prevents me from identifying her contact. The boxes rent for a million rubles per day, which puts her in the company of serious money and political connections.
"Uncle, we have a problem." Thom's voice carries tension that makes my stomach clench. "Courier just broke pattern. Moving early toward exit C."
I swing the binoculars toward window twelve and spot Sokolov pushing through the crowd. He clearly has a target in mind. His face carries a tight expression and he's moving fast. Maybe he's gotten new orders.
"Intercept him," I order. "Don't let him reach the parking structure."
"Moving now."
I watch Thom and another operative converge on Igor's position from opposite directions. They move through the crowd like ghosts, using the natural flow of bodies to mask their approach. Igor doesn't notice them until they're within arm's reach, and by then it's too late for a graceful retreat.
The confrontation happens fast. Thom reaches for Igor's arm, probably intending a quiet escort to a less public location. Igor jerks away and his hand moves toward his jacket. The universal gesture of a man reaching for a weapon sends a chill down my spine.
"Gun!" Thom's shout cuts through the ambient noise, and suddenly, the area around window twelve explodes into chaos.
Igor's pistol clears his jacket, a small black automatic that looks insignificant until he raises it toward Thom's chest. The first shot cracks like a whip, loud enough to penetrate the crowd noise and send the nearest bettors scrambling for cover.
Screams erupt from every direction. The orderly queue at the betting windows disintegrates into a panicked mob as people push and shove toward any available exit. A woman in a fur coat stumbles and nearly gets trampled before two men drag her upright. Children cry as parents sweep them up and join the surge toward the doors.
I speak into my radio, keeping my voice steady. "All units, we have weapons fire on the main floor. Contain the situation and maintain perimeter."
But containment becomes impossible as the panic spreads. The crowd moves like a living thing, flowing away from the gunshots and toward the exits in a human tide that threatens to crush anyone who falls. Vendors abandon their carts, which become obstacles that trip fleeing patrons. The smell of spilled beer and trampled food mixes with the sharp odor of fear-induced sweat.
From my elevated position, I can see the full scope of the disaster unfolding below. Igor fires again, and Thom dives behind an overturned betting stand while his partner returns fire from behind a concrete pillar. The shots' boom ricochets off the vaulted ceiling, turning the racetrack into an echo chamber of violence.
I abandon the mezzanine and push toward the stairs, fighting against the upward flow of people desperate to escape the main level. A middle-aged man in an expensive suit tries to shove past me, and I grab his shoulder hard enough to leave bruises.
He whimpers and moves out of my way, and I force my way down against the human current, using my elbows and shoulders to create space in the packed stairwell. Bodies press against me from every direction, and the air grows thick with exhaled breath and panic pheromones.
The main floor has transformed into a battlefield. Overturned chairs and scattered papers litter the polished concrete. An abandoned wheelchair sits empty near the far wall, its occupant presumably carried to safety by family members. The electronic betting boards still flash odds and race information, their cheerful displays absurdly normal amid the chaos.
I spot Vera near the main counter, crouched behind the reinforced barrier that separates the betting area from the public space. She's not running, which simultaneously relieves and terrifies me. Her green eyes find mine across the distance, and I see determination mixed with fear in her expression.
Movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention. A man in a dark jacket emerges from behind the service counter, and I recognize Timur immediately. That sick fuck is going to regret running us off the road. He stalks toward Vera's position, his hand already reaching for the gun beneath his coat, and I know he won't hesitate to pull that trigger.
Training takes over. I draw my pistol and find a good angle where there's cover to protect myself. The safety clicks off as I raise the weapon, and my finger finds the trigger as I align the sights on Timur's center mass.
The shot takes him in the ribs, spinning him sideways as the bullet tears through muscle and bone. His own gun fires almost simultaneously, but with his death spin, the bullet flies wide, missing Vera and lodging into the wall behind and above her. He stumbles against the counter’s edge, blood spreading across his shirt in a dark stain that grows with each heartbeat. His own weapon clatters to the floor as his legs give out.
"Vera!" I shout over the continuing gunfire from across the floor. "Service tunnel, now!"
She doesn't argue or hesitate. Rising from her crouch, she runs toward the unmarked door that leads to the maintenance areas beneath the facility. Her braid whips behind her as she moves, and I feel a moment of pride at her quick compliance with my order.
The service tunnel door slams shut behind her just as more gunshots erupt from the grandstand level. The sound carries a different quality from the pistol fire below, the deeper barkof rifle rounds that sends fresh waves of panic through the remaining crowd.
"Sonya's making her move." Rolan's voice crackles through my earpiece. "She's got long guns up in the premium level."
I look up toward the private boxes where muzzle flashes strobe against the darkened windows. The glass barrier that separates the premium level from the main floor spider-webs under impact, and fragments rain down on the people still trapped below.
The air fills with cordite smoke, the acrid chemical smell that clings to everything after sustained gunfire. It burns my nostrils and coats the back of my throat, mixing with dust kicked up by running feet and the metallic tang of spilled blood.
