I knelt and cleared the heavy dust with my gloved hand.

I revealed a seam of rusted iron hidden beneath the stone dust.

The vibration of the next knock pressed directly against my palm.

Someone was down there.

And they were trying to get out.

“Daniel, get the heavy crowbar and the bolt cutters from the tool chest,” I said.

My voice sounded flat in the cramped cellar.

Daniel did not ask questions.

He ran up the stone steps, his boots echoing against the walls.

Nora drew her knees up to her chest on the wooden bench, her eyes wide with fear.

Marcus stood over her, his hand resting on the grip of his holster.

The knocking beneath my palm stopped.

I pressed my ear against the cold, grimy iron seam.

I heard a ragged breath from below.

It was thin, wet, and shallow.

Daniel returned, breathing heavily, and handed me the solid steel pry bar and the heavy cutters.

I saw a rusted padlock recessed into the mortar.

I clamped the cutters onto the old shackle and squeezed with all my strength.