Page 63 of Sin Wager
I check my Makarov and chamber a round, flick the safety to off. Then I think of how terrifying it must seem to her, to see a man she thought was just a businessman who owns horses turn into some violent machine right before her eyes. My conscience, however, is so stained with the guilt of the dozens of lives I've taken, all I can manage is a soft nod and a sigh. There is no time to reassure her or bolster her sense of confidence. She either shows up to this fight or she doesn't. Nothing I say now will change her level of readiness.
We climb the stairwell to level three and at the landing, I pause and listen. I hear nothing but distant traffic and the building's mechanical heartbeat. Vera clings to my backside. Her body is close to mine, but the sweet hints of her perfume don't overpower the stench of exhaust and burnt motor oil from the garage.
I guide Vera to a position near the central support columns, concrete pillars thick enough to stop rifle rounds, and my radio crackles—Gregor's voice comes through the static. "There's movement on the ramp. A black sedan with no plates."
I check my watch to see that they came early, which means they came ready to kill instead of talk. Smart predators scout their prey before striking. They’re here to set up before they think we'll arrive.
"Positions," I whisper into the radio, and I watch Vera press her eyes shut.
"Are you okay?" I ask gruffly, and she nods a tight and stiff acknowledgment. As if she had time to get out of this, anyway. There is nowhere to run or hide.
The sedan crawls up the ramp, but I hear it before I see it. The tinted windows hide the occupants, but I count at least three shapes inside. The vehicle stops fifty meters away, angled for quick escape.
"That's not how this works," I call out. My voice carries in the hollow space, bouncing off the walls, and it makes Vera jolt with fear.
Doors open and three men emerge from the vehicle. The driver remains behind the wheel, ready to punch the accelerator. They spread into a loose triangle, hands inside their coats, reaching for weapons. They move in an organized way, like men who've been trained to do this their whole lives.
"You have our money?" The leader steps forward, and the light reveals a scarred face.
Vera steps into the open, letting the light shine on her face, and before I can think, the negotiation is over. The leader's hand emerges from his coat gripping a suppressed Beretta. I dive left, pulling Vera down as the muzzle flashes before the shot's report can be heard.
The first rounds chew chunks from the wall above our heads. I roll behind cover and return fire while Vera covers her ears. The leader spins and drops, blood painting the sedan's windshield in arterial spray.
More shots come from the stairwell, Thom engaging a flanking gunman who tried to circle behind us. The radio crackles with gunfire and shouted commands.
A bullet whines off the concrete inches from Vera's face, leaving a white scar in the pillar. She presses against the wall, eyes wide, and I see blood on her sleeve, likely from falling. I don’t have time to go to her, but I open fire on the men to lay cover fire.
"Get to the pillar," I shout at her over the roar of shots ringing out.
The second gunman advances, firing controlled pairs that force me to tuck back deeper behind my cover. Professional discipline, textbook tactics. But professionals make mistakes when rage clouds their judgment.
I wait for his reload, count the seconds, then break cover with my Makarov extended. Two shots hit him center mass before he staggers backward, surprise replacing aggression on his face before he crumples beside a rust-stained Honda.
The stairwell erupts with automatic fire. A voice cuts through the chaos, "Man down! Thom is down!"
Gregor responds immediately. "Moving to assist!"
But the third gunman breaks from cover, sprinting toward our position with an AK-47 braced against his shoulder. Full-auto fire rakes our concrete shelter, sparks flying as steel-core rounds fragment against stone.
I grab Vera's hand and pull her toward the maintenance ramp, staying low while bullets chew the air above our heads. The decoy bag spills open, leaving fake currency fluttering to the filthy concrete.
Sirens wail in the distance, growing louder by the second. Moscow authorities respond fast when automatic weapons start speaking in public places.
"This way!" I push Vera down the ramp toward the lower parking level.
More gunfire from behind us, Gregor's rifle answering the AK's chatter. Good man, buying us time while we escape the killing ground. This isn't going as planned.
I rush her toward my car with its keys still waiting in the ignition, and I hear the squeal of tires in the level above us.
"Get in," I tell Vera.
The engine turns over and I reverse hard, tires screaming on pavement, then slam the transmission into drive. The exit ramp beckons ahead, offering the only passage to safety. We roar down the ramp and onto street level as police sirens converge from multiple directions. Blue lights flash through the darkness, painting building façades in stuttering illumination.
In the rearview mirror, I catch glimpses of the parking structure—muzzle flashes still visible through the gaps, shadows moving between levels. Gregor holds his position, covering our escape.
We merge into traffic, anonymous among thousands of other vehicles navigating Moscow's evening rush. I watch our six, taking random turns, doubling back through side streets to make sure we're not being followed while my pulse hammers in my head. Nikolai is going to kill me.
Vera sits rigidly in the passenger seat, staring at the blood on her wrist. The cut looks superficial, probably from concrete fragments, but she watches the red stain spread with the fascination of someone seeing their own mortality for the first time.
