We walked past the wooden racks of bottles, our boots making no sound on the dirt floor.

At the end of the cellar was the narrow spiral staircase.

It led directly up to the pantry behind the kitchen.

Marcus went first, his large frame filling the tight stone passage.

I followed close behind, my hand on the cold iron handrail.

When we reached the top, Marcus pressed his ear to the wooden panel of the hidden door.

“Two voices,” he whispered. “They are in the dining room.”

“Are they looking for Nora?” I asked.

“They’re talking about clearing the safe,” he replied.

Marcus slid the panel open an inch.

A thin line of amber light fell across his wet face.

The mansion was quiet, save for the sound of the wind rattling the high glass windows.

We stepped out into the pantry, our movements synchronized.

The kitchen was dark, the copper pots hanging above the island reflecting the dim light from the hallway.

I crept to the doorframe of the dining room.

A man in a gray tactical vest was standing near the sideboard, his rifle slung over his shoulder.