With her free hand, Natalie yanked the cellar door open. The hinges shrieked in protest. The smell of mildew, damp earth, and fresh copper—blood—wafted up from the darkness.
“Police! Is anyone down there?” she shouted.
Silence. Then, a sound so faint it could have been mistaken for a rat scurrying across the stone floor. It was a shallow, agonizing breath.
Natalie descended the wooden stairs, her tactical light piercing the gloom. In the far corner of the cellar, tied to a structural support beam with thick industrial zip ties, was Andrew.
He was barely recognizable. His face was a swollen canvas of purple and black bruises. A deep laceration across his forehead poured blood into his eyes, and his breathing was a terrifying, wet rattle. But what caught Natalie’s attention wasn't his injuries. It was his hands.