“We cannot.” Bisch’s hand closed on my arm. His whispers grew urgent and pleading. “Not tonight. Not like this.”
“We can’t just leave them.”
“We find the Baroness and get her out. We can come back with reinforcements and a plan that does not end in slaughter.” His grip tightened. “Think, Thomas.”
I wanted to argue.
Every instinct screamed that we couldn’t leave these people, couldn’t walk past their suffering like it didn’t matter; but Bisch was right, and I hated him for it.
I hated myself more for knowing he was right.
Will raised a hand and signaled us forward. His eyes were harder than I’d ever seen, filled with fury and purpose. Bisch nodded at his signal and stepped forward, again, leading the way.
The cells grew larger as we moved. Tiny barred closets became holding rooms, spaces with drains in the floor and chains on the walls. I didn’t let myself think about what happened in those rooms. I didn’t let myself imagine the Baroness in one of them.
Then we found her.
The door to her prison was different from the others. It was heavier, reinforced with steel bands, and secured with a lock that looked military grade. The window in the door was the same: small, barred, offering a glimpse into whatever lay within.
Will reached it first. His body tensed the moment he peered through.
“Thomas.” His voice cracked on my name. “She’s here.”
I moved beside him and looked through the bars.
The cell was larger than the others, almost comfortable by comparison. It contained a real bed, a chair, and a table with a pitcher of water. The Baroness sat atop the bed, her silver-blonde hair tangled and filthy, her face a ruin of bruises.
She was battered, but alive.
Her hands were wrapped in bandages, dark with dried blood. Beneath the bandages, where her fingers should have been—
I looked away. I couldn’t help it.
“They tortured her,” I said. The words came out strange, distant, like someone else was speaking them. “Those bastards tortured her.”
“But she’s alive.” Will’s voice was fierce with desperate hope. He turned to Bisch. “Can you handle that lock?”
Bisch was already examining it, his hands moving over the mechanism. He produced a leather case from his coat with professional-grade lock picks.
“German design,” he mumbled to himself. “Military. I have seen these before.” He selected two picks and went to work. “Two minutes.”
“Make it one,” I said.
I raised my weapon and covered the corridor, scanning for any sign of movement. The weeping from the other cells seemed louder now, pressing against my ears like an accusation.
We’ll come back, I promised them silently.We’ll come back for all of you.
I just hoped it wasn’t a lie.
Behind me, I heard the soft scratch of Bisch’s picks in the lock, Will’s ragged breathing, and the distant hum of the fortress going about its terrible business.
Sixty seconds.
We were so close.
15
Will
