The walls were solid Hudson Valley bluestone, built in the nineteenth century.

The only exit was the wooden staircase leading up to the kitchen, and the narrow coal chute in the far corner.

The coal chute was rusted shut, its iron latch frozen by decades of moisture.

“Daniel, check the chute,” I ordered.

Daniel moved quickly across the damp floor, his boots splashing in a shallow puddle of water.

He shoved his shoulder against the iron plate of the chute.

It didn’t budge.

“It’s rusted solid, Adrian,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead. “We’d need a sledgehammer to break those hinges.”

Above us, a floorboard creaked directly over our heads.

The sound was sharp, like a dry twig snapping.

Someone was standing in the kitchen, right above the cellar door.

We all froze, holding our breath in the darkness.

The silence was absolute, save for the faint dripping of water from a pipe behind the bomb.

Then, we heard a metallic clink.

It was the sound of a flashbang canister rolling across the linoleum floor upstairs.

“Down!” Marcus yelled.