Two black sedans were parked near the entrance of the main breeding barn.

Dante pulled his horse to a stop at the tree line.

I stopped Vesper beside him.

The air smelled of wet cedar shavings, expensive leather, and ammonia.

“There are lights on in the office,” Dante whispered.

“The back entrance leads directly to the stalls,” I said.

“We can get in through the washing bays.”

Dante drew a heavy, black pistol from his coat.

He checked the magazine and chambered a round with a metallic click.

“Stay behind me,” he said.

“No,” I said. “Vesper knows these aisles better than any of us.”

We dismounted, tying the horses to the low branches of an oak.

But Vesper nudged my shoulder with her nose.

She refused to stay behind, her breath hot against my cheek.

“She’s coming,” I said.

Dante looked at the mare, then at me, and nodded once.

We slipped through the heavy sliding door of the wash bay.

The interior of the barn was quiet, filled with the occasional snort of a sleeping horse.

The concrete floor was swept clean.