The sound was a dull, heavy click in the enclosed space.

The first man folded forward, his visor hitting the concrete with a sharp crack.

The other two shadows spun, their muzzle flashes lighting up the aisle in brief, blinding bursts of yellow.

Bullets chewed into the wooden partition next to my head, spraying splinters into my hair.

“Down!” Dante roared.

I didn’t drop.

I grabbed Vesper’s leather halter, my fingers locking into the brass buckles.

“Up, boy,” I whispered, pressing my thumb hard into the soft skin just behind his jaw.

It was an old trainer’s trick to make a stubborn horse rear.

Vesper understood instantly.

He rose on his hind legs, his massive chest blocking me from the line of fire.

His iron shoes struck the top of the wooden stall door.

The heavy oak door tore from its top hinge and swung outward with a deafening screech of metal.

It struck the second gunman squarely in the chest, throwing him backward into the opposite wall.

The third gunman adjusted his aim, pointing his submachine gun directly at Vesper’s chest.

“No,” I muttered.