Page 75 of Sin Wager
My boots splash through shallow puddles of rainwater that have gathered in the uneven floor, the sound amplified by the tunnel's acoustics until each footfall becomes a sharp report that could betray my position. Behind me, the muffled chaos of the shootout continues to rage, gunfire cracking through the concrete barriers and vibrating through the steel supports that frame this hidden world beneath the grandstand.
I press my back against the cold wall and force myself to slow my breathing. The baby sits heavy in my belly, a constant reminder of what I have to lose now. The doctor's warning to rest echoes in my mind as I place a protective hand over the slight curve that nobody else would notice yet.
The tunnel branches ahead of me, splitting into a maze of maintenance corridors that service the electrical systems, plumbing, and ventilation for the massive facility above. I've spent enough time at this track to know the basic layout, but these service areas remain foreign territory. Pipes and conduits snake along the walls in complex patterns, marked with Cyrillic labels that identify their purpose to maintenance workers who speak the language of industrial systems.
Footsteps echo from somewhere behind me, growing closer with each passing second. Multiple sets, moving purposefully rather than the panicked flight of civilians caught in the crossfire. My heart hammers against my ribs as I realize that someone has followed me into the tunnels, and I doubt their intentions are friendly.
I move deeper into the maze, choosing corridors that seem to lead away from the main betting floor. The emergency lighting grows more sporadic here, leaving long stretches of near darkness between the weak bulbs that struggle to illuminate the underground passages. My fingers trace along the wall for guidance, feeling the rough texture of unfinished concrete and the occasional metal junction box that houses electrical connections.
A door slams somewhere behind me, the sound reverberating through the tunnel system with enough force to rattle the pipes overhead. Voices follow, speaking rapid Russian in tones that suggest urgency and anger. I catch fragments of conversation, enough to understand that they're looking for someone.
The realization sends ice through my veins. These aren't Misha's men conducting a search and rescue operation. These are Radich soldiers, probably sent by Sonya to eliminate the loose ends that could connect her crew to the betting scam. I'mthe primary loose end, the woman who can identify faces and connect names to criminal activities that span months.
I duck into a side corridor, pressing myself against the wall as the voices grow louder. The space barely accommodates my shoulders, designed for accessing pipe junctions rather than human passage. Rust flakes from the metal surfaces around me, leaving orange stains on my clothes that will be impossible to remove if I survive this encounter.
The men pass my hiding spot without slowing, their flashlight beams cutting through the darkness ahead as they continue deeper into the tunnel system. I count three distinct voices, maybe four, all speaking harsh Russian words.
When their footsteps fade into the distance, I emerge from the cramped corridor and begin retracing my path toward the main tunnel. Staying hidden might keep me safe in the short term, but it also leaves me isolated and vulnerable if Sonya's men decide to conduct a systematic search of the underground areas. Better to move toward help, even if that means exposing myself to additional risk.
The sound of running water grows louder as I navigate the maze of passages. Somewhere ahead, a main drain or sump pump handles the constant flow of groundwater that threatens to flood these lower levels. The mechanical noise provides audio cover for my movement, masking the splash of my boots through standing water and the scrape of my jacket against the tunnel walls.
I round a corner and freeze as I spot light ahead. Not the dim glow of emergency bulbs, but the bright white beam of a powerful flashlight sweeping back and forth across the corridor. Someone stands at the intersection where my tunnel meets the main passage, and their position blocks my route back to the betting floor.
I retreat back into the darkness, moving as quietly as possible while my mind races through available options. The tunnel system has to connect to other parts of the facility. Emergency exits, maintenance shafts, service elevators that could carry me back to the surface. But finding those alternatives requires time I don't have and knowledge I lack.
A new sound penetrates the ambient noise of dripping water and machine systems. Footsteps, but different from the heavy boots of Sonya's men. These move with more precision, more awareness of how sound travels through concrete passages.
"Vera." The voice carries clearly through the tunnel, pitched low enough to avoid attracting unwanted attention but loud enough to reach me across the distance. Misha's voice, rough with tension but unmistakably familiar.
Relief floods through me so powerfully that I nearly cry out in response. Instead, I force myself to move carefully toward the sound, staying close to the wall and pausing at each intersection to listen for threats. The man with the flashlight has moved deeper into the system, his light no longer visible from my position.
I find Misha at the junction where three tunnels meet, his dark clothing making him nearly invisible in the shadows until he steps into a pool of emergency lighting. Blood streaks across his shirt from a shallow cut on his forearm, and concrete dust coats his hair and shoulders. His eyes find mine immediately, and I see the relief that mirrors my own feelings.
"Are you hurt?" He reaches for me, hands moving quickly over my arms and shoulders to check for injuries. His touch is gentle but thorough, and the damp fabric under his touch still clings to me.
"I'm fine." The words come out shaky, betraying the fear I've been suppressing since entering the tunnels. "But there are men down here. Radich crew, looking for me."
His jaw tightens, and his hand moves instinctively toward the gun holstered beneath his jacket. "How many?"
"Three or four. They passed my hiding spot a few minutes ago, heading toward the maintenance sections."
"Good. That puts them away from our exit route." He takes my hand and begins leading me back toward the main tunnel. "We need to get back to the betting floor. Rolan has Sonya cornered, but she's demanding to see you before she talks."
The idea of facing Sonya again sends a chill down my spine, but I understand the tactical necessity. As the primary witness to her operation, I'm the key to extracting information that could dismantle the entire Radich conspiracy. My testimony could save Misha's position with the Vetrov family and eliminate a threat that has been bleeding their organization dry.
We move through the tunnels more quickly now, Misha's knowledge of the facility layout guiding us through the maze of passages and maintenance areas. His hand never leaves mine, and that connection provides both physical guidance and an emotional anchor in my anxiety.
The sound of voices echoes ahead of us, harsh and angry tones of a confrontation we will walk in on. We pause at a junction where the tunnel opens into a wider maintenance area, and Misha signals for me to stay behind him as he peers around the corner.
Two men stand near a bank of electrical panels, their attention focused on something beyond my line of sight. One holds a pistol casually at his side, while the other speaks rapidly into a radio handset. Both of them are dressed in all black, like criminals in the night.
Misha draws his gun and steps into the open space with fluid motion. "Drop your weapons."
The men turn toward us, and I recognize one immediately. Pasha, the thin man with nervous eyes who always accompaniedSonya during her visits to the betting windows. His face goes pale as he realizes he's facing Misha Vetrov rather than some security guard or lost civilian.
The other man, someone I don't recognize, makes the mistake of raising his pistol. Misha's gun barks twice with deafening volume. Both rounds take the stranger in the chest, spinning him back against the electrical panels in a shower of sparks and blood.
Pasha drops his weapon immediately, hands raised in surrender as he stares at his dead companion. "Don't shoot. Please. I surrender."
