He wasn’t panicking; he looked like a soldier waiting for the whistle.

The red emergency lights flickered once, casting jumping, bloody shadows across the aisle.

A shadow detached itself from the darkness near the tack room.

A tall man in tactical gear stepped into the red light, a silenced submachine gun held at his chest.

He didn’t see us yet, his visor scanning the empty stalls opposite him.

Dante took a slow, deep breath, his body coiled like a spring.

I held my breath, the iron horseshoe heavy and cold in my hand.

Another shadow appeared behind the first, then a third.

They were clearing the stalls one by one, moving closer to where we stood in the dark.

Vesper shifted his weight, his hooves making a soft rustle in the straw.

The first gunman stopped.

He turned his head toward our stall, the barrel of his weapon shifting in our direction.

The silence in the stable was absolute, broken only by the wind outside.

Dante stepped out from the shadow of the partition.

He fired before the first gunman could fully raise his weapon.