Page 77 of Lash

"Well, theywerehere," Solomon says, eying the smoldering butt. “And recently.”

"What did we miss?" Silas asks.

Lorenzo is back in the doorway between this section and the stable, spinning in a slow circle, his gaze thoughtful.

“What, Ren?" Sol says.

A shrug. "I do not know. But they are here somewhere. I can feel it."

"Okay, I believe you," Solomon says. "But where? We've searched the barn. No upstairs, no obvious basement."

"No," Lorenzo says. "It would not be obvious, would it? It isn't a basement, it is a cellar or a dungeon. It will be hidden."

"So we're looking for a trap door?" Saxon says. "That changes things. It won’t be in the arena or the stalls. Tack room, maybe? Our barn at the estate we grew up on had a small cellar below the tack room. Dad hid the trapdoor beneath a fancy-ass rug, because the motherfucker was a bougie-ass dick."

Lorenzo strides aggressively toward the tack room and flips on the light—saddles rest on racks on the walls and on sawhorses here and there, with bits and bridles and halters hanging from hooks. Wide, deep wooden chests line the walls below the hooks and racks, and a large, expensive Persian rug covers the center of the floor. Lorenzo grabs a corner of the rug and tosses it, revealing a trapdoor. I help him pull the rug out of the way, and then he grabs the ring, pausing with a glance at me. I brace the shotgun in my shoulder, aim it at the door, and give him a nod. He jerks, but the door must be locked from below. He backs away and turns aside as I rack the empty shell out and blast a round through the handle. Lorenzo snags the gaping hole and heaves the heavy wooden door upward and drops it; I scan the opening with my flashlight.

A staircase, very steep, almost a ladder. Darkness below.

With a bracing exhale, I drop onto the stairs into a crouch and bend, tilting my shotgun sideways to sweep the light beam across the space: cinderblock walls, bare concrete floor, spiderwebs in the rafters, exposed electrical and plumbing; a long, wide corridor running the footprint of the stable. Bare lightbulbs dot the ceiling at regular intervals, turned off. A closed door here, a slightly ajar one there. Piles of random junk are scattered here and there—discarded building supplies, old saddles and pieces of tack, and agricultural tools and implements I cannot identify. Lorenzo follows me down, followed by Saxon and Rev; Lorenzo and Saxon search the lefthand corridor, and Rev and I the right. We creep silently for the nearest door, left slightly ajar. Rev takes up position on the hinge side while I wait by the latch side, switching back to my MP5; Rev shoves the door open and bolts backward out of the way; just in time, too.

Gunfire is a sudden barrage of noise and light and chaos, slashing through the dark silence. Rounds smash through the wall where Rev had been standing. If he hadn't expected exactly that and moved, he'd be dead.

I have one flashbang left, but I opt to preserve it, along with my pair of frag grenades. I use the bright spear of muzzle flash to pinpoint the shooter and send a trio of rounds just above the muzzle flash. They smack wetly, and the shooter collapses with a soft grunt.

Rev sweeps into the opening and rakes his beam across the room, momentarily blinding the three other occupants. He drops one with a pair of rounds to the chest—he's wearing a vest, so the shots aren't lethal; my follow-up slug to his skull is. The other shoot is quick to drop to a knee and rip off a short burst at Rev. He's too quick, the rounds going wide, and Rev doesn't miss, putting three more rounds to center mass, and I dropthe third with a round through the throat, finishing the second shooter before he can recover.

I hear gunfire, a shout.

Tatiana screams; more gunfire. Scarlett shouts something, and then Solomon.

Cursing in Romani, I bolt out of the room. At the far end of the other corridor, Sol and Scarlett are pulling an enraged Tatiana out of a room, screaming and kicking.

A powerful hand grabs my arm. "We gotta clear this room, Nico," Rev growls in my ear. “You gotta trust them for a second."

Cursing again, I stomp across the hall and kick in the closed door, a rash, foolhardy action.

Something smashes me in the chest, knocking me backward several feet and crushing the breath from my lungs. I crash to the ground and crack my head on the floor, and stars whirl behind my eyes.

Rev steps over me and his rifle barks in a quick series of three-round bursts. He stares down at me as I blink and gasp. "Rookie mistake, Nico."

I nod, my mouth working as I struggle to catch my breath. That was stupid. I know better: don’t rush is rule number one of room-clearing. I catch a sliver of oxygen and then manage a deeper breath, and then finally my lungs catch up and I gasp, gag, and cough. I hear groaning and gasping—the same noises I'm making. I grab Rev's proffered hand and accept his help up to my feet, struggling to pull a full breath. In the room, several men lay writhing and gasping and coughing on the floor.

Pissed off at myself, I switch to the Binelli and finish them off with a rapid sequence of blasts.

Rev chuckles as I exit the room. "Alright, then." His humor fades immediately. "You alright?"

I nod, pushing on my chest to check for tenderness, wincing and hissing. "Yes, I do not believe anything is broken."

More gunfire, a few quick bursts. At the other end, Scarlett has Tatiana pressed up against the wall, speaking to her intently. I jog down the corridor to them.

"What is it?" I demand. "What happened?"

Scarlett meets my gaze, indicating the room I saw them dragging Tatiana from. With a heavy heart, I enter it.

Hanging from a hook in the ceiling by thick, rusty chains, shoulders dislocated, bruised, beaten bloody, tortured, and left to bleed out is Stjepan Juric—Tatiana's father.

"Fuck," I snarl.