A tall, broad figure stood in the opening, silhouetted against the wet glare of the courtyard lights.

It was Dante.

His dark coat was torn at the shoulder, and a streak of blood ran down the side of his jaw.

He held a heavy black pistol in his right hand, the barrel smoking slightly.

He looked at me, then down at the mercenary on the floor.

“Mara,” he said, his deep voice gravelly and low.

“I’m here,” I said, letting out a breath I did not know I was holding.

Dante stepped into the shed, his eyes scanning the small space.

He looked at the bleeding Kroll soldier, his expression darkening.

“Is he alone?” Dante asked.

“Yes,” I said. “He’s wounded.”

Dante walked over and stood over the man, his boots casting a long shadow.

The mercenary looked up, terror finally filling his face as he recognized the boss.

“Please,” the soldier whispered, pulling himself back.

Dante did not lower his gun.

“You were talking,” Dante said. “About Julian Vance.”

The mercenary nodded quickly, his chest heaving under his tactical vest.