I could see a flickering yellow light moving behind the small, leaded-glass window of the cellar.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I quickened my pace to a run.

The smell of gasoline reached me before I even reached the stone steps.

It was thick and chemical, cutting sharp through the clean smell of wet earth.

“Marcus!” I screamed into the wind, but the storm swallowed my voice.

I reached the heavy oak door of the gatehouse, which was standing half-open.

The iron padlock had been sheared off, lying in the mud by the threshold.

I stepped inside, my flashlight beam bouncing off the damp stone walls and the rows of wooden shelves.

“Get out of here, Blake,” Marcus’s voice echoed from the cellar stairs.

“I’m not letting you burn this place down, Marcus,” Blake said, his voice steady but tense.

I hurried down the narrow stone steps, my hand sliding along the cold, slimy wall.

At the bottom, the cellar was lit by the harsh glare of Marcus’s metal flashlight resting on a wooden crate.