The air in the hallway smelled of ancient dust and fresh, cold rain.

A flashlight beam swept across the peeling floral wallpaper ten feet ahead of me.

Heavy boots crunched on the glass shards near the broken front door.

I pressed my back against the wainscoting and held my breath, my rifle gripped tight against my chest.

“Secure the ground floor,” a man’s voice ordered from the foyer.

It was Voss.

His tone was just as flat and bureaucratic as it had been over the phone.

“She is here,” a second voice said.

The sound of my mother’s voice sent a cold spike through my ribs.

Caroline Mercer sounded entirely unaffected by the storm, the ruined house, or the fact that she was hunting her own daughter.

“Her vehicle is hidden in the treeline behind the carriage house,” Caroline said.

“Then she hasn’t gone far,” Voss replied.

I heard the wet scrape of leather soles on the hardwood floor of the parlor.

Two distinct sets of heavy tactical boots followed them, their footsteps measured and synchronized.

“Natalie,” my mother called out into the dark.