Page 36 of Sin Wager
I approach silently, my footsteps muffled by the straw scattered across the stable floor. Pavel is so focused on his work that he doesn't hear me coming. The syringe is nearly at Lightning's Crown's neck when I reach him.
"Pavel."
He spins around, eyes wide with panic, the syringe still clutched in his hand. "Misha. I didn't—this isn't?—"
"What's in the syringe?"
"Nothing. I mean, it's just…" He stammers, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air in the stable. It's guilt—visible on his skin, in the clammy complexion of his face, in the way his hand shakes.
I don't give him time to finish the lie. My knife slides between his ribs before he can take another breath, angled upward to pierce his heart. He drops the syringe and grabs my wrist, but the damage is already done. His eyes go wide with shock, then empty.
"No…" he grunts, and I catch his body as it falls, lowering him carefully to the straw-covered ground. The syringe rolls away, and I retrieve it, examining the clear liquid inside. Probably a mild sedative—enough to slow Lightning's Crown down without killing the animal outright. Or maybe a steroid meant to throw results and disqualify the beast from even racing later this evening.
The stable is still quiet, no sounds of approaching footsteps or concerned voices. I have maybe five minutes before someone comes looking for Pavel.
I position his body carefully, making it appear as though he tripped and fell against the metal feed bin near Lightning's Crown's stall. A tragic accident—the kind of thing that happens when jockeys get too close to nervous horses in confined spaces. I place the syringe in a feed bucket where it won't be immediately visible but will be discovered eventually, adding credibility to any investigation that follows.
Lightning's Crown stamps and snorts, agitated by the scent of blood, but the horse settles when I speak quietly and move away from the stall. No harm done to the animal, and the race can proceed as originally planned.
Then I slip out of the stable through the back entrance, putting distance between myself and Pavel's body before anyone discovers it. The paddock area is busy with pre-race activity, grooms and trainers focused on their horses, spectators beginning to gather for the feature event.
Twenty minutes later, I'm standing near the betting windows when I hear the commotion from the stable. Raised voices, someone shouting for security, the unmistakable sound of an emergency in progress.
"What's happening?" I ask a nearby trainer, playing the part of concerned track management.
"Jockey's been hurt. Pavel Gurevich. They found him in the stables."
"How bad?"
"Bad enough. Ambulance is on the way, but…" The trainer shakes his head grimly.
Within an hour, the news spreads through the track community with the speed that bad news always travels. Pavel Gurevich is dead, found in the stables with a knife in his chestand suspicion of tampering with the horses. The discovery of a syringe containing an unknown substance near the body raises questions about what he was doing in that part of the stable complex.
By evening, rumors are flying. Some say Pavel was involved with organized crime, others claim he was being pressured to throw races. A few whispered conversations mention the Radich family by name, though nobody wants to speak too loudly about Russian organized crime connections.
I find Vera in the break room after her shift, sitting alone at one of the plastic tables with her hands wrapped around a cup of tea that's gone cold. Her face is pale, and I can see the tremor in her fingers when she reaches for the cup.
"You heard about Pavel," I say, settling into the chair across from her.
She nods without looking up. "They're saying he was mixed up with criminals. That he was fixing races."
"What do you think?"
"I think Pavel was a good rider who got in over his head." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "I think there are people at this track who prey on anyone desperate enough to listen to them."
There's fear in her tone, likely because my warnings have finally hit their mark. Pavel's death casts light on his connection to Sonya, and that will be looked at. It's only a matter of time before the same light shines on Vera.
"Vera." I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine. "Look at me."
She raises her eyes, and I see terror there—not just for Pavel, but for herself.
"I'm scared," she admits. "If Pavel was involved with the wrong people, and now he's dead…" She trails off, but I can fill in the rest of her thoughts easily enough.
"Come here."
She stands and moves around the table, and I pull her down onto my lap, wrapping my arms around her as she burrows into my chest. Her whole body is shaking, the careful composure she maintains around other people finally cracking under the weight of her fear.
"I can't end up like Pavel," she whispers against my shirt. "I can't leave my family with nothing."
