Page 97 of Property of Bones

But beside me, Abby gasps. “Sunny,” she whispers, trembling. “He’s not bluffing. They did that to me… last time. Hours in ice-cold water up to my chest. I thought I was going to drown in the dark.”

Her voice breaks. I reach for her, grounding us both.

My fury burns hot, but I keep it buried.

“All right,” I growl up at the trap door. “We’ll climb.”

“Good choice,” the man replies.

I turn to Abby, voice low. “Let me go first. But stay right on my heels, okay? I’m not chancing them shutting that door before we’re both out.”

She nods, or maybe she just trembles. It’s too dark to tell.

I grip the rope ladder. The fibers are rough and stiff, cutting into my palms. It smells like mildew and rust. The rungs creak under my weight, but they hold.

As I climb, the air grows warmer…closer. I can hear breathing above. More than one man.

Behind me, Abby’s hands fumble on the rope. She lets out a quiet whimper but keeps going.

Light spills brighter with each rung. The trapdoor opening isn’t wide, just enough for one body at a time. My shoulders scrape against the sides as I reach the top.

A hand reaches down. I slap it away. “Don’t touch me.”

The man just laughs, stepping back.

I pull myself through the opening, heart hammering, muscles tense, ready to strike if anyone tries to separate us.

Abby’s fingers appear next. I grab her wrists and help haul her up before anyone else can get near.

The room we enter is small. Concrete walls, one bare bulb swinging overhead, casting harsh shadows across the floor. The stench of sweat, smoke, and stale alcohol clings to everything.

Three men stand nearby. All masked.

But I only look at them long enough to count.

Then I plant myself in front of Abby, breathing hard, fists clenched.

We’re out of the hole.

But we’re not free.

“Follow me,” says the man closest to me. “Someone wants to say hi.”

Not seeing another option, I reach back and clasp Abby’s hand. We follow our captors up a narrow set of stairs, out of what I can only assume was a basement.

Light hits us…dim, fluorescent…and voices follow.

“Oh good,” someone says. “They’re awake.”

I spot two men standing near a metal table, both familiar in the worst kind of way.

“Aren’t those the guys from the compound security feed?” I ask Abby, not bothering to lower my voice.

She nods stiffly.

Thenhesteps forward.

The man in charge moves like he owns the ground he walks on. Slow, calculated, like every step is a choice. He’s tall, and lean, with dark skin, close-cropped black hair, and eyes like polished onyx…flat and cold. There’s a tattoo running up one side of his neck, black ink sharp against his skin, and a ring on his finger shaped like a skull. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

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