“Quiet,” I whispered, my voice trembling as I grabbed the toy and thrust it back into his arms.

I threw my weight against the iron grate.

With a harsh groan of metal, the latch gave way, and the gate swung open.

I ushered the kids inside, the smell of aged oak and dust rising around us.

In the distance, the gunfire stopped as suddenly as it had started.

For three long seconds, there was only the sound of our breathing.

Then, a heavy, dragging sound came from the basement room.

“Marco?” I called out softly, keeping my voice as low as possible.

No one answered.

The red light of a laser sight flickered across the stone wall of the passage we had just left.

Someone was coming down the corridor.

I pulled the heavy oak door of the wine cellar shut, forcing the latch to click into place as quietly as I could.

My hands were shaking, slick with cold sweat.

I pressed my back against the rough stone wall and drew Lily and Owen behind a rack of dusty Cabernet bottles.

“Hold onto me,” I whispered.