I swung my right arm and hurled the heavy iron horseshoe I was holding.

It was an awkward, desperate throw.

The iron struck the man’s visor with a loud clang.

His head jerked back, his finger squeezing the trigger of his automatic weapon.

A spray of bullets tore into the ceiling, bringing down a shower of plaster and dust.

Dante was already moving.

He stepped out from behind the hay bales, his stance perfectly level.

He fired twice.

The third gunman dropped his weapon and collapsed into the straw, clutching his thigh.

The stable went dead silent again, save for the heavy breathing of the horse and the groan of the wounded man.

Vesper came down on all four hooves, his chest heaving, his nostrils flared.

He didn’t run.

He stood his ground, guarding the entrance of the stall.

Dante walked forward, his boots making no sound on the dusty concrete.

He kept his gun pointed at the man on the floor.

“Who sent you?” Dante asked.

His voice was entirely devoid of emotion.

The man on the floor gasped, his hands slick with blood.