In the minutes of speeding up here, I’ve called and texted Cunningham, Vanessa, and Marlene, telling them what I feared, telling them to contact the police and for God’s sake, stay away from the Fair Grounds Race Course today.

Hell, I even tried to contact Special Agent Morgan, but nothing seemed to go through.

I have no confidence that any of my warnings have gone through. Marlene and Vanessa will be so busy with breakfast that they might not check their phones, and Cunningham and Morgan take turns ignoring me.

But I’m confident of one thing for sure.

That I’m absolutely, 100 percent right that an attack is coming, and it’s coming from a horse farm owned by Billy Needham’s sister.

There.

Up ahead.

The narrow country road marked PRIVATE. I brake, the car’s end nearly fishtailing, and I swerve onto the gravel path, slamming on the accelerator again. The gravel road is in fine shape but I still bounce up and down as I roar down it, glancing anxiously up into the clear and inviting blue sky.

There.

The mansion and its stables and perfect flat green fields—perfect for an aircraft to use!—are up ahead, as is the large metal gate. The impressive metal barrier grows into view as I get closer, and I think, Pure Hollywood, but I’ll drive through there if I have to—

And I see someone has already beaten me to it.

The gates are slowly swaying back and forth, and there is twisted metal and a broken lock mechanism, and I go through as well, the gates scraping at the side of the car as I burst through into the private yards.

The mansion is to the left, the nearest large barn is to the right, and parked up ahead is—

A silver Audi!

Just like the one I saw going into the junkyard that night, when I was following poor Ibrahim Farzat.

Billy Needham.

Has to be.

I slow down and pull in next to the Audi, step out, over-dressed for this fine morning, but I don’t care. My 9mm Smith & Wesson M&P is in my hand, with four spare magazines in my jacket pocket.

I look around as I go up to the front porch.

The place is empty.

No horses practicing out in the fields, no stable hands or other workers moving around on the grounds.

The stillness and emptiness of the place makes my scalp tingle. I go up to the front door, and it’s open.

I peer in.

A luxurious sitting room beyond the small foyer. Antique furniture, heavy wooden tables, crystal chandelier, Oriental carpets, and leather-bound books snugly placed into bookshelves.

I step in.

A figure is sitting on the couch.

I take a breath.

It’s Emily, dressed in heavy riding boots with silver spurs, tan riding jodhpurs, and a fine white blouse with lace around the neck and sleeves.

“Ms. Beaudette?”

I step closer.