A black sedan had rammed through the wrought-iron barrier, its headlights shattered.

Several figures in tactical gear were leaping out of the vehicle, moving toward the stables.

And behind them, a second car was pulling up, its high beams blinding the security cameras.

The phone in Dante’s hand began to vibrate violently.

He looked down at the screen.

An unknown number was calling.

He pressed the receiver to his ear.

“Speak,” Dante barked.

A voice on the other end, thin and mocking, drifted through the quiet stable air.

I recognized that voice instantly.

It was Charles Vance.

“I believe you have something that belongs to me, Moretti,” Vance said.

The sound of gunfire erupted from the gravel driveway outside.

Dante hung up the phone without another word.

He slipped the device back into his coat pocket.

Above us, the red security lights painted the pine walls a deep, bruised color.

Vesper shied back into his stall, his heavy hooves clattering against the damp straw.

I placed a flat palm against his wet flank to steady him.

The horse’s skin was twitching under my fingers.