“I’m not,” the man gasped. “Vance is at the safehouse. With Marco. They’re waiting for the call.”

Before Dante could ask another question, the radio on the dead gunman’s vest crackled to life.

A high-pitched static filled the quiet stable.

“Alpha team, report,” a voice rasped through the speaker. “Is the package secure?”

Dante looked down at the radio, then up at me.

His face was hard as stone.

He reached down and tore the radio from the man’s vest.

He didn’t answer it.

Instead, he turned his head toward the heavy double doors at the end of the aisle.

The sound of tires crunching on gravel echoed from the driveway outside.

Several vehicles were approaching, moving fast.

“They’re here,” Dante said.

He checked the magazine of his pistol, his fingers moving with practiced precision.

“Can you ride him?” Dante asked, looking at Vesper.

The horse was still standing tall, his ears forward, his eyes bright.

“He’s not fully healed,” I said. “His shoulder is still weak.”

“He doesn’t need to win a race,” Dante said. “He just needs to get you over the north wall.”