Morning light cut through the boarded windows like prison bars. The smell of coffee and bacon couldn't mask the sour tang of fear in the air. Quinn nursed his mug, watching George's fingers twitch toward his shotgun between bites of eggs. The old man's eyes kept darting to the windows—calm as a tripwire.
Sarah sat propped on the couch, her color less corpse-like but her movements still stiff. She picked at toast like it was a chore. Helen shoveled oatmeal into her mouth with the precision of someone who'd licked meals off knives.
Martha refilled Quinn's coffee, her hands steady but her face drawn. "Slept alright?"
"Best in months," Quinn admitted. The lie tasted bitter—he'd dreamed of his kids' faces in the car window, their small palms smearing the glass as their mother peeled away from the curb.
George wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "Good. Quiet won't—"
CRACK.
A gunshot split the morning.
Helen's spoon clattered. Sarah's head snapped up. George was on his feet before the echo died, shotgun in hand. Martha's knuckles whitened around the coffee pot.
"They're here," George breathed.
"Who?" Quinn demanded.
Martha didn't answer. She yanked Helen toward the rug in the center of the room. George kicked it aside, revealing a trapdoor. The hinges screamed as he hauled it open.
"Cellar. Now."
Boots crunched gravel outside. Multiple pairs.
Quinn grabbed Sarah, half-dragging her toward the opening. She bit back a groan, her leg buckling. Helen scrambled down the ladder like a rat down a pipe. Sarah followed, her breath hissing through clenched teeth.
Quinn tossed their bags down, then swung his legs over the edge.
George's hand clamped his shoulder. "No matter what you hear—stay down."
The trapdoor slammed shut. Darkness swallowed them whole.
Quinn flicked the flashlight on. The beam caught Helen's wide eyes, Sarah's sweat-slick face. The cellar reeked of damp earth and pickled beets. Shelves lined the walls—jars of preserves, burlap sacks, rusted tools. A fucking tomb.
Above, the front door groaned open.
"Bout time, Georgie-boy."
The voice dripped with mockery, all drawl and razor blades. Richter.
Boots stomped across the floorboards. George's reply was strained: "Wasn't expectin' you so soon."
"Change of plans." Leather creaked as someone sat. "Heard a ruckus last night. Thought I'd check on my investment."
Quinn killed the light. Helen pressed against him, trembling.
"We're fine," Martha lied. "Just the wind."
Richter chuckled. "Wind don't leave fresh tire tracks, darlin'."
A chair scraped. Footsteps paced near the trapdoor. Quinn's hand found his K-Bar.
"Payment was due three days ago," Richter snarled, the charm evaporating. "Where's my grain? My poultry?"
"Foxes got the chickens," George stammered. "Weevils in the—"
"Bullshit." A thud—someone shoved. Martha cried out.
Quinn's muscles coiled. Sarah's fingers dug into his arm No matter what, George had said.
Richter's voice dropped to a purr: "Price just doubled. Four cattle. Ten sacks. By sundown tomorrow."
"That'll ruin us!" George choked.
"Should've paid on time." Boots moved toward the door. "Boys'll stay to… supervise. Martha's comin' with me. Insurance."
Martha's sob curdled Quinn's blood.
The door slammed. Heavy footsteps remained above—Richter's men, settling in. A bottle clinked. Laughter grated like bones breaking.
In the dark, Helen whispered: "We gotta help."
Quinn's knife gleamed in the sliver of light from the trapdoor seams.
Sundown tomorrow. The deadline hung in the silence like a death sentence.