Keep moving. Keep alive.
He shifted forward, and she followed. Every step louder than the last.
The beam of Colt’s flashlight swept ahead as they stepped through the warped doorway into a wide-open bay. The air shifted, heavier now, steeped in something old and wrong.
Brenna didn’t need to see to know what this room had been. She remembered the shape of it. The hollow sound of boots on the concrete. The way screams had once echoed off these walls.
Colt angled the light higher. And six figures emerged from the dark.
Brenna froze when she saw the hostages. Kneeling in a staggered line, backs to the wall. Hands tied behind them. Gags tight across their mouths.
The flashlight trembled for half a second in Colt’s mouth.
All of the hostages blinked against the light, squinting. One of them jerked his head, eyes wide. Another tried to rock forward. Muffled sounds rose from their throats, urgent and desperate.
Trying to speak. Maybe trying to warn.
Brenna stepped in, fast but quiet, her focus narrowing. The ropes holding the hostages weren’t just binding their wrists. Each one was tethered to the wall. Thick ropes looped through rusted metal rings bolted into the concrete.
Her stomach turned.
Those rings had been there before.
She’d seen them three years ago, when the CSIs marked them for evidence. The reports had confirmed what they’d suspected.
Restraints.
For torture.
She moved closer, knees bending to eye level. The nearest hostage, a woman with graying hair and blood on her temple, shook her head, eyes locked on Brenna’s. She thrashed against her bindings once, sharp and panicked.
Behind her, Colt stepped further into the bay, flashlight scanning the shadows. His body stayed between the hostages and the open door.
Brenna yanked the gag from the first woman’s mouth.
“Stay quiet,” she whispered.
Terror flashed in the woman’s eyes, but she gave a shaky nod.
Brenna pulled the knife from her belt and sliced through the rope at the woman’s wrists. She caught her as she sagged forward, then guided her gently to sit before moving on.
The next hostage trembled as Brenna reached for the gag. His breath came fast, uneven. She didn’t speak this time. Just met his eyes, pulled the gag down, then cut him loose.
Another shot cracked through the building, causing her to flinch. It had come from the far side. Not close. But not far enough.
Her heart twisted.
Beck. God, please don’t let him be dead. Please don’t let that shot mean he’s been executed.
She forced herself to move, jaw tight, vision blurring for a second before snapping back into focus.
Three more hostages. Then they’d figure a way out. If therewasone.
She heard the footsteps echo down the hall. Sharp. Fast. And Brenna stiffened.
Her comm crackled. “It’s me,” Harlan said. “Approaching now.”
Colt didn’t shift his stance, didn’t speak. His focus stayed locked on the dark beyond the door, flashlight steady in one hand, weapon in the other.
