Above us, the ceiling creaked under the weight of several heavy, tactical boots.

“Check the corners!” a voice shouted from the study stairs.

“They couldn’t have gone far.”

I reached back and slid the heavy iron bolt into place on our side of the cellar door.

My fingers came away black with grease and cold rust.

Victor was leaning against a stack of wooden crates, his breathing shallow and loud.

I pressed my hand over his mouth to quiet him.

His skin was cold, slick with a feverish sweat that made my palm slide.

Through the cracks in the wooden ceiling, thin beams of flashlight gold pierced the darkness, cutting through the floating dust.

A sudden, massive explosion rocked the entire house.

The floorboards groaned, and plaster dust rained down on our heads like gray snow.

“What was that?” Victor gasped as I released his mouth.

“Not the police,” I said, looking up at the shaking beams.

The explosion had come from the front courtyard, far too loud for a standard federal tactical breach.

Heavy, sustained automatic gunfire erupted outside, echoing through the cellar vents.