Page 44 of Hell and High Water

A clear path in the dust leads back to the end of the hall.

One room left.

We post, nodding before storming the room. A pallet’s tucked into the corner by the far window, a trunk. A few odds and ends. Definitely someone squatting here.

But it doesn’t mean shit.

Evan shakes his head as he joins me back by the door.

“Perhaps a hobo, squatter?”

“Could be.” But I’m not convinced. “Stay alert. Did you see whether this place had a basement?”

“I think so.”

Creeping down the dark, creaking steps has even me shivering with a hint of nerves. The musty smell and the light filtering through the high slits in the wall give the room a dungeon-like feel.

“Flashlight?” Evan whispers, passing me the cylinder.

“Thanks.”

It does little to alleviate the creepy aspect of the basement, the old boxes, lines of shelves. At least it reveals that nothing’s down here.

“Kind of a let down,” Evan mutters, looking around, poking through a few piles of old books.

“Nothing but rat poop and a dead racoon.” I turn my light back toward him, finishing my sweep of the room.

“Just because someone lives off the grid, doesn’t mean they’re a mastermind behind a clandestine organization, I guess.”

“I don’t buy it. There’s more here. There has to be.”

I nod, heading back toward the steps. Only in my case, I’m more worried about who might have been staying here, who might have actually known about this place.

Like the person who killed the owner, or whoever shot Hellena.

The timeline doesn’t add up, but the MO…

I’m about to set my foot on the first step when Evan’s light passes over an odd shape on the floor.

“Whoa, look.” I point.

It’s faint, almost unnoticeable in direct light. At an angle, though, faint grooves in the floor cast a hint of shadow, a crescent of lines leading right to the wall.

Feeling around, I find the almost seamless outline of a door. “Secret door.”

A sharp click echoes in the silence, and I turn, my eyes widening as Evan pulls his hand out from under the stairs. “Secret button.”

It slides open, revealing a panic room, dated for the time, but still heavily guarded, the metal door armed with a massive bolt locking mechanism once inside.

It looks untouched, and almost as clean as the owner left it.

“This looks like a holdover from the Cold War, an old bomb shelter,” I muse, examining the walls, the shelving, the bunks.

“You’re not that old.” Evan snickers.

“Shut up. I used to be obsessed with old military tech, World Wars, Soviet spy stuff. It’s part of the reason I went into the military.”

“See? I knew we had more in common. You can’t resist a bit of drama.”

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