He cracked the whip on the cold, cement floor—SMACK!— then he slapped her face.
Her skin stung from the assault, but she breathed deep through the pain. This would be nothing compared to the violence he’d threatened to unleash on her.
Nothing at all.
TEDDY
Teddy madehis way down the worn, wooden steps in the cabin’s basement. For as neat as the first floor was, the unfinished lower level was an absolute disaster. A total junk yard of things never discarded. A hoarder’s paradise.
Teddy stilled, listened.
Not a sound. He made his way around the piles of junk to find himself standing at the far wall. With old boxes piled on top of furniture and clothing that had been left to rot, he couldn’t see his way out. He’d backed himself into a corner, but he had to clear the room.
Scurrying had him wheeling around. A rat skittered past, disappearing into a sideboard that had been relegated to the back wall. The air was stagnant, the smell of mildew and dirt so heavy, he started coughing. With his hand over his mouth to stifle the sound, he pressed on.
“Team, check in,” Teddy murmured into his comm.
Silence was the only reply.
He continued through the musty room until he made his way back to the stairs. Up he went, shutting the door behind him. There was no one in the house. No Muhammad Haqazzii, no terror cell lieutenants, and no Robby Waters masquerading as poker phenom Burt Goodson. He’d been so sure the killers had been using the cabin as their safe house.
But he’d been wrong. Dead wrong.
Teddy strode out the front door, closing and locking it behind him. He breathed in the cold, autumn air.
“Main house clear,” Teddy said into the comm as he adjusted his night goggles.
Again, he was met with a chilling silence.
“Sydney, check in.”
Nothing.
“Greystone, Caroline, are you there?”
No response from either of them.
Adrenaline spiked through him as he strode toward the back of the house. As he made his way through the thick underbrush of the property, he stumbled over a mound of packed dirt. Instinctively, he dropped to a crouching position and ran his hand over the leaf-covered area.
After brushing away the leaves, sticks and twigs, he bit out, “What the fucking fuck.”
This is a grave.
In the dead of night, the horror became crystal clear. He’d stepped into a homemade cemetery of neatly lined graves.
“Sydney,” he murmured. “Can you hear me?”
Adrenaline had him powering through the wooded area toward the detached garage as dread filled his angry soul.
