He began pulling open the desk drawers, rummaging through papers and cables.

Outside, a sharp, high-pitched hiss echoed through the vents.

“What is that?” I asked, looking up at the ceiling.

“Thermite or a plasma torch,” Nathan said, his voice grim.

“They brought heavy equipment.”

“How long will the steel shutter hold?” I asked.

“Ten minutes, maybe fifteen,” he said, slamming a drawer shut.

I went back to the bed and sat on the floor with the quadruplets.

Emma was staring at me, her eyes wide and quiet.

She had her hand buried deep inside the front pocket of her fleece pajamas.

Her small fingers were clutching something tightly.

“Are you okay, Emma?” I asked softly, taking her other hand.

She nodded slowly, but she didn’t take her hand out of her pocket.

“Miss Martha told me to be brave,” Emma whispered.

Martha was their nanny, a kind older woman who had loved the girls like her own.

Vanessa had fired her two weeks ago, accusing her of stealing, and had her escorted off the property by Julian’s guards.