He leaned his head back against the paper bags, closing his eyes for a second.

“You’re the girl from the diner,” he said. “The one who fixed the horse.”

“How do you know about me?” I asked.

He let out a dry, rattling laugh that turned into a grimace of pain.

“We knew someone was helping Moretti keep that beast alive,” he said.

“Who sent you?” I demanded, stepping closer.

The mercenary squinted at me through the dim light of the single bulb hanging overhead.

“The boss wanted the horse dead,” he said. “Or taken back. But it wasn’t just Kroll’s idea.”

He paused, gasping for air as he clutched his bleeding leg.

“Who?” I asked again.

“The guy who sold him to Moretti in the first place,” the man whispered.

My breath caught in my throat.

The memory of a cold, sterile stable in Kentucky flashed through my mind.

A man’s voice, sharp and mocking, telling me I would never work with horses again.

“Julian Vance,” I whispered, the name tasting like ash on my tongue.

The mercenary nodded weakly.