I stepped inside and pulled the bookcase shut behind me.

The darkness was total.

I did not turn on the flashlight.

I knew the steps.

Twelve steps to the first landing.

Then a turn to the left.

My hand guided me along the rough-hewn timber walls.

This passage had been built during the Civil War.

My ancestors used it to store valuables during the raids.

Now, I was using it to hunt.

I reached the first landing and stopped.

There was a small peephole in the wood paneling here.

It looked out into the main gallery of the west wing.

I pressed my eye to the opening.

The gallery was lit by the dim emergency lights.

Two men in black tactical gear were standing near the portrait of my grandfather.

They were talking in low voices.

“The cellar team isn’t responding,” one said.

“We should check the perimeter,” the other replied.

“No,” the first one said.

“The boss said to hold the kid until the boat arrives.”

“Where is the boat?”

“At the old dock.”

“They are waiting for the storm to peak.”