The silence that fell after Richter's men settled in upstairs was worse than the shouting. It was a thick, heavy quiet broken only by the sounds filtering down through the floorboards: the clink of a bottle against glass, a low chuckle, the creak of a chair leg scraping on wood, heavy boots pacing back and forth like caged animals. Seven of them. Quinn counted the distinct sounds, mapping their rough locations in his mind. Too many. Too close.
Down in the earthen dampness of the cellar, the air felt tight, suffocating. Helen had pressed herself against Quinn's side, her small body rigid with fear. Sarah sat propped against the wall, her face grim in the utter darkness, her breathing shallow but controlled. Quinn could almost hear the thoughts racing through her head – the same calculations, the same impossible odds he was running through his own.
He felt the cold rage simmering just beneath his skin, a low burn demanding action. Martha's terrified sobs echoed in his memory. George's strained voice trying to protect them. These thugs, lounging upstairs, drinking George's liquor while holding him captive, waiting to collect a payment that would ruin him, all while holding Martha's life as collateral… it was intolerable.
He waited, forcing himself to breathe slowly, evenly, listening. The men upstairs seemed to be relaxing. Their voices grew louder, coarser. Laughter erupted, sharp and jarring. Someone started whistling tunelessly. They were getting comfortable. Complacent. Drunk, maybe. That was good. That was an opening.
He felt Sarah shift beside him. "Quinn?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sounds from above. "What are you thinking?"
He didn't need the flashlight to know her eyes were searching for his in the blackness. He knew what she was asking. She felt the same helplessness, the same obligation to the old couple who had shown them kindness.
"Thinking they made a mistake," Quinn whispered back, his voice flat, cold. "Leaving witnesses. Leaving survivors."
"Seven of them," Sarah breathed. "Armed. We're down here."
"They don't know that," Quinn countered softly. "They think it's just George up there. Scared old man." He paused, listening again. The pacing upstairs had stopped. More laughter. A loud belch. "They're not paying attention."
He felt for the K-Bar at his belt, the solid weight of it grounding him. He thought of the weapons in the duffle bag – pistols, shotguns. Too loud. The knife was silent. Personal. Deadly. His training, buried deep but never forgotten, surfaced – stealth, silence, maximum damage with minimum noise. It was ugly work, but necessary.
"It's too risky," Sarah whispered, though her voice lacked conviction. She knew, just like he did, that letting Richter's men stay meant certain doom for George and Martha, and likely a slow death or recapture for themselves.
"Staying here is riskier," Quinn replied. He touched Helen's shoulder gently. "Stay right here with Sarah. Don't make a sound, understand?"
Helen nodded mutely against his side, trembling.
Quinn took a deep breath, centering himself, pushing the anger down, letting the cold, tactical part of his mind take over. He needed to get out of the cellar, unseen, unheard. He felt along the rough wooden underside of the trapdoor above him. Heavy. Lifting it silently would be difficult.
He listened intently. Two men seemed to be near the kitchen area, laughing. One was pacing near the front door. Others sounded like they were gathered around the main table. Where was George? He couldn't hear the old man's voice. Hopefully, they were ignoring him, letting him sit in terrified silence.
A loud crash from above, followed by raucous laughter. Someone had dropped something, maybe knocked over a chair. Perfect.
Using the noise as cover, Quinn reached up and pushed gently against the trapdoor. It didn't budge much, maybe half an inch, settling back down with a soft scrape of wood on wood. He needed leverage. He felt around the dirt floor, his fingers closing on a short, sturdy piece of wood – maybe a broken tool handle.
He waited. More laughter upstairs. Now. He wedged the end of the wood into the slight gap he'd made, put his shoulder under the trapdoor, and pushed upwards slowly, using the wood as a lever against the frame. The heavy door lifted silently, agonizingly slowly, maybe six inches. Enough.
Cooler air, carrying the smells of bacon grease and cheap liquor, flowed down into the cellar. He could hear the voices more clearly now, rough and careless. He peered through the gap. The rug was askew. He could see the legs of the dining table, empty boots resting on the floor nearby, the bottom edge of the curtained kitchen doorway. No one seemed to be looking directly at the cellar door.
He froze as footsteps approached the area above him. He held his breath, every muscle locked. A pair of heavy boots stopped right beside the trapdoor. Quinn could see worn leather, stained dark. The man hawked and spat onto the floorboards nearby. Then the boots moved away again, towards the front of the house.
Quinn let out his breath in a silent rush. He pushed the door up another few inches, just enough to squeeze through. Holding it steady with one hand, he pulled himself up and out, moving like smoke, landing silently on the balls of his feet on the wooden floor beside the misplaced rug. He eased the trapdoor back down, lowering it carefully until it rested flush again, leaving only the tiniest gap for air. He nudged the rug back into place with his foot.
He was out. Standing in the relative open of the living area, heart hammering, K-Bar now drawn and held low against his thigh. The oil lamp still burned on the table, casting flickering shadows that danced with the daylight filtering through the boards.
Seven men.
He scanned the room quickly, taking inventory. Two men sat slumped at the dining table, heads close together, sharing a bottle. One leaned back in his chair, boots up on the table, eyes half-closed. Three more were sprawled in the armchairs and on the couch where Sarah had rested, passing another bottle between them. The seventh man, the one who had paced earlier, stood near the front door, peering out through one of the peepholes George had drilled. George himself was nowhere in sight. Maybe in the kitchen? Or perhaps locked in another room?
Quinn focused on the man nearest him – the one leaning back in his chair at the table, eyes half-closed. He was maybe ten feet away. His pistol was holstered at his hip, but his hands were laced behind his head. Relaxed. Vulnerable.
Quinn moved. Silent steps on the worn floorboards, keeping low, using the back of the armchair Helen had occupied as cover. He flowed around it, rising up directly behind the man's chair just as he yawned widely.
Before the yawn could finish, Quinn struck. His left hand clamped hard over the man's mouth, stifling any sound, jerking his head back against the chair. Simultaneously, his right hand brought the K-Bar up in a swift, brutal arc, slicing deep across the exposed throat.
There was a wet, tearing sound, instantly muffled by Quinn's hand. The man's eyes flew wide open in shock and sudden agony. His body convulsed, hands grabbing instinctively at Quinn's arm, feet kicking uselessly against the floor. Dark blood pulsed, soaking the front of the man's shirt, spilling onto Quinn's hand.
Quinn held him tight against the chair, maintaining the pressure over his mouth, riding out the death throes. It felt like an eternity but lasted only seconds. The struggling weakened, became frantic twitches, then ceased. The man went limp, head lolling against the back of the chair.
Quinn eased the body down slightly, preventing it from slumping noisily onto the floor. He slowly released his hand from the man's mouth. Silence. He listened. The other two men at the table were still murmuring drunkenly to each other, oblivious. The three by the couch hadn't noticed. The man at the door remained fixated on the outside world.
One down. Six to go.
He wiped his bloody hand and the knife blade carefully on the dead man's shirt, moving deliberately, conserving motion. Where next? The other two at the table were close, but facing each other. Difficult to take both quickly and silently. The three on the couch were clumped together. Risky.
The man at the door. He was isolated. Back turned.
Quinn melted back into the shadows near the armchair, then began to circle around the edge of the room, using the deep shadows cast by the boarded windows, moving towards the front door. His boots made no sound on the floor. He was a phantom in the dim light, fueled by cold purpose.
He reached the wall near the front door, pressing himself flat against it. The guard was still peering through the peephole, muttering something under his breath. Quinn gathered himself, took a silent step forward, then another. He was directly behind the man now. Close enough to smell the stale sweat and cheap liquor clinging to him.
He raised the K-Bar again, aiming for the kidney this time. A silent, disabling, ultimately fatal blow. His arm started the upward thrust–
Creak.
A floorboard groaned softly from the direction of the kitchen doorway.
The guard at the door stiffened instantly, hand dropping to the butt of his holstered pistol, starting to turn.
Quinn froze, knife halfway through its deadly arc. He wasn't alone in the shadows. Someone else was moving.