Marcus was there.

He was strapped to a heavy oak chair in the center of the room.

His face was bruised, and a thin line of blood ran from his split lip.

But his eyes were open, glaring at the two men standing in front of him.

The two men wore black tactical gear without any identifying patches.

They were mercenaries, hired by Caleb to do his dirty work.

“Where are the keys to the sub-level vaults?” one of them asked.

He held a thick leather strap in his gloved hand.

Marcus did not answer.

He spat a mouthful of blood onto the mercenary’s black boot.

The mercenary swore and swung his hand, striking Marcus across the cheek.

Marcus’s head jerked to the side, but he did not make a sound.

“We have all night,” the second mercenary said.

“Caleb said we can break as many bones as we need to.”

I felt a cold rage rising in my chest.

The grate in front of me was held in place by four old screws.

I reached out and touched the metal frame.