Page 1 of Stolen Empire
1
KATYA
The fence gives under my fingers at eleven forty-seven, the chain-link parting where I cut it.
I slip through the gap and crouch against the outer wall of the stable block, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness.
The security guard rotation changed at eleven thirty, which gives me eighteen minutes before the next patrol circles back from the main gate.
Eighteen minutes to get inside, locate the mare, and walk her out through the service exit on the south side where the buyer is waiting with cash I can already feel in my hands.
I memorized the layout during my first two visits.
The main corridor runs straight through the center of the building, flanked by stalls on both sides.
The mare they call Rusalka is housed in the fourth stall from the eastern entrance, and the halter I need is hanging on a hook just inside the tack room three doors down.
I rehearsed this enough times in my head that my feet know where to go even before my brain catches up.
The gravel crunches under my boots as I move along the wall, staying in the shadow of the eaves.
A floodlight mounted near the main entrance lights up the dirt lot, but the rest of the building sits in darkness.
I reach the side door and the knob turns without resistance, so I ease the door open just wide enough to slide through.
The air inside is thick and warm, heavy with the smells of hay and manure and leather.
Horses shift in their stalls, but none of them make a sound.
I pull the door shut behind me and wait, letting the silence settle around me before I move.
My heartbeat is steady, my breathing controlled.
I've done this enough times to know that panic is the thing that gets you caught—not bad luck.
I move down the corridor with my back to the wall, keeping my steps soft.
The stalls are dark, but I can see the shapes of horses inside, their heads turned toward me as I pass.
One of them snorts, a sound that makes my stomach flip, but I keep walking.
The tack room is just ahead, the door half-open, and I slip inside without pausing.
The halter is where I remember it, hanging on the second hook from the left.
I lift it off and test the buckle, making sure it will hold.
The leather is worn but sturdy, and I loop it over my shoulder before stepping back into the corridor.
The mare's stall is ten paces away, and I cross the distance quickly, my fingers already reaching for the latch.
Rusalka is a gray mare with a white blaze down her face, and she watches me as I open the door.
She doesn't shy away when I step inside, and I take that as a good sign.
I've always been good with animals, better than I am with people.
They don't ask questions or demand explanations.
