I reached into my jacket pocket and gripped the heavy brass hoof pick I had kept from the grooming kit.

It was not much of a weapon, but it was all I had.

“Who’s there?” I called out, my voice barely louder than a whisper.

Another groan answered me, followed by a wet, coughing sound.

I took a slow step forward, pulling Vesper along behind me.

Inside the dim shed, a man lay slumped against a stack of paper fertilizer bags.

He wore the gray tactical gear of Kroll’s mercenaries.

His right thigh was soaked in dark blood, a crude nylon tourniquet tied above the wound.

A discarded submachine gun lay just out of his reach on the concrete floor.

I kicked the gun away, sending it skittering into the dark corner.

The man raised his head, his pale face glistening with cold sweat.

He looked at Vesper, then his eyes shifted up to my face.

A strange, weak grin touched his lips.

“You,” he wheezed.

“Don’t move,” I said, holding the metal tool tight.

“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart,” he muttered, coughing up a speck of blood.