Page 74 of Sin Wager
"How many shooters?" I ask into my radio while moving toward better cover behind a concrete support pillar.
"At least three, possibly four. They've got the high ground and clear fields of fire across the main floor."
A rifle bullet pings off the pillar near my head, showering me with concrete fragments. The Radich crew isn't trying to escape cleanly anymore. They're making a stand, which means they're either desperate or confident in their ability to fight their way out.
I key my radio again. "Status on perimeter security?"
"Exits are sealed. Nobody gets out without our approval."
"Good. Tighten the net and watch for Sonya trying to slip away in the confusion."
Another burst of rifle fire tears chunks out of the pillar above me. The shooters have discipline and patience, taking aimed shots rather than spraying bullets wildly. Military training or extensive criminal experience. Either way, they're more dangerous than panicked amateurs.
Through the chaos, I catch glimpses of my men moving through the crowd, their dark clothing distinguishing them fromthe fleeing civilians. They advance by sections, using cover and mutual support to close distance on the gunmen above.
The betting boards flicker and die as a stray bullet finds the main electrical panel. Emergency lighting kicks in, bathing everything in harsh white illumination that creates sharp shadows and eliminates the subtle gradations that help eyes track movement.
Below on the track, horses are being led quickly back toward the stables and owners and jockeys alike are panicked. A woman's scream cuts through the gunfire, high and piercing enough to penetrate the general noise. I spot her near the overturned concession stand, blood streaming from a scalp wound while a man tries to pull her toward the exit. Civilian casualties were inevitable once the shooting started, but each one represents a failure of planning and control.
"Gregor, report," I demand into my radio.
"We've got them cornered in box seven. Two confirmed down, unknown number still active."
"Don't let them reach the service elevators. If they get into the lower levels?—"
The transmission cuts off as another rifle bullet impacts near my position. This one comes from a different angle, suggesting the shooters have split up to create crossfire zones. Basic military tactics applied to urban combat.
I sprint from my cover toward the next pillar, drawing fire that impacts the floor behind me in a line of concrete dust and sparks. The distance closes to thirty meters, then twenty, bringing me within effective range for my pistol.
The first target appears in the broken window of box seven, his rifle barrel tracking across the floor in search of new prey. I put two rounds into his chest before he can acquire a target, and he disappears backward into the darkened interior.
"Tango down," I report into my radio.
"Copy. Box seven cleared. Moving to box eight."
The gunfire begins to slack off as my men eliminate the shooters one by one. The Radich crew fight with heart but lack the coordination and firepower to hold their positions against organized opposition. Within minutes, the sharp crack of rifles gives way to sporadic pistol shots and finally, to an ominous quiet.
Emergency sirens wail in the distance, growing louder as police and ambulance crews race toward the racetrack. The authorities will arrive soon, which means we need to finish this operation and establish plausible narratives before they start asking difficult questions.
"All stations, status report," I order.
The responses come back quickly. "Sector one clear." "Sector two clear." "Three shooters down, one in custody."
But no mention of Sonya herself.
"Where's the primary target?"
"Unknown. She wasn't in any of the boxes when we cleared them."
My jaw clenches as I realize we've been played. The shootout was a distraction, a way to occupy our attention while Sonya escaped through channels we hadn't anticipated. The woman has more tactical awareness than I gave her credit for.
I speak into my radio with controlled fury. "Find her. Check every exit, every service corridor, every hiding place in this facility. She doesn't leave here alive."
29
VERA
The service tunnel swallows me whole, its concrete walls closing in around me as I stumble through the dim passageway. Emergency lighting flickers overhead, casting wavering shadows that dance and twist with each step I take deeper into the bowels of the racetrack. The air tastes metallic and stale, heavy with decades of accumulated dust and the persistent smell of machine oil that seeps from the maintenance pipes running along the ceiling.
