Page 20 of Stolen Empire

But the thought lingers, and I'm forced to shove it aside with the same discipline I've used to survive this long.

I have a traitor to catch, and Katya is going to help me do it.

5

KATYA

In the jockeys’ locker room, I scrub away the filth left after the manual labor I did yesterday from my hands and notice the bruises forming on my arm where Dimitri's fingers dug in.

My clothes are still dirty, but when no one is looking, I manage to rifle through a few unlocked lockers and find a clean shirt and a comb to go through my hair.

I'm not even close to presentable, but at least I don't still smell like horse shit.

I make my way across the yard toward the main stable, where the card room sits tucked behind a set of offices.

I guess it's where track staff unwind, but it's just as dumpy as the rest of this old rundown place.

I push through the door, and the interior is dim, lit by a few overhead fixtures.

There's a card table in the corner, a bar along one wall, several small dining tables scattered around the place, and a bunch of men, and most of them don't look like jockeys.

They look up when I enter, and the conversation dies.

I feel their eyes on me, assessing, dismissive, and I keep my expression neutral as I cross to the small bar in the corner.

A bottle of vodka sits on the counter next to a stack of glasses, and I pour myself a shot, keeping my back to the room.

Just the sort of setup that gets people killed around here, but I can't exactly refuse to obey Dimitri.

He has my pendant, and I want it back before I sneak away and never show my face around here again.

So I have to tuck my head down, play his game, and with any luck, he'll give me what I want and I can make myself scarce.

"You lost?" one of them grumbles.

"No," I say, turning to face them. "I'm looking for a game."

I throw the vodka back like I'm a regular drinker and pretend it doesn't burn going down.

The man who spoke is older, maybe fifty, with a graying beard and a gut that pushes against his shirt.

He looks me over, his gaze lingering in places it shouldn't, and then he laughs.

"This isn't a game for you, sweetheart. You should get lost."

"I've got money," I say, leaning against the bar. "And I've got time. If you don't want it, I'll find someone else who does."

Another man stands, his chair scraping against the floor.

He's younger, leaner, with a scar running down the side of his face.

"You heard him. Get out."

I don't move.

I set the glass on the counter and rest my elbow there.

"I'm not here to play cards with you. I'm here to make money. If you can't help me with that, then point me to someone who can."