The red emergency light pulsed against the metal doorframe, casting long, bloody shadows.

“Please don’t shoot!” a voice whimpered from the dark hallway.

It was Felix Crane.

The diner manager stumbled forward, his hands raised, his face pale and slick with sweat.

Behind him stood a tall man in a tactical vest, holding a pistol to Felix’s head.

“I didn’t have a choice, Dante,” Felix sobbed, his eyes darting wilding in the red light. “They found me at the diner. They made me show them the way.”

The man behind Felix sneered, his eyes scanning the darkened office.

“Drop the gun, Moretti,” the gunman said. “Kroll wants you alive, but he didn’t say anything about the girl or the horse.”

Dante did not lower his weapon.

“Felix,” Dante said, his voice flat and cold. “Drop to the floor.”

Felix did not hesitate.

He collapsed to his knees, burying his face in his hands.

Dante fired a single shot over Felix’s head.

The gunman took the hit in the shoulder, stumbling backward into the corridor with a grunt of pain.

“Run,” Dante told me, not looking back.