"—the hell you think Richter's doin' with that old bitch?" A voice slurred above, followed by the smack of liquor hitting the back of a throat.
"Same thing he does to all of 'em," another chuckled. "Makin' her sing soprano."
The cellar air thickened with the stench of sweat and spilled whiskey seeping through the floorboards. Quinn pressed his ear to the trapdoor, counting seven distinct voices—all drunk, all careless.
Sarah's fingers dug into his arm. "We can't stay down here," she whispered. "Martha's got hours at best."
Helen crouched in the dark, her breath steady. Too steady. The girl had gone predator-still.
Above, boots scuffed toward the cellar door. "Georgie-boy! Get your ass in here!"
George's voice, strained but smooth: "Ain't no need to shout, boys. Just fetchin' more whiskey."
"Bullshit. You were eyein' that rug like it's hidin' gold."
A chair screeched. Quinn's knife was in his hand before the thought finished.
Then George's laugh—forced but convincing. "Gold? Hell, I'm savin' you from Martha's shine. Stuff'll peel paint." A pause. "But if you're feelin' brave… kitchen's stocked."
Boots shuffled away from the trapdoor. "Lead the way, old man."
Quinn waited three heartbeats. Lifted the door an inch.
The living room was a tableau of neglect: two men slouched at the table, cards sticky with blood from the chicken they'd torn apart. Three more by the fireplace, passing a bottle. The last two followed George toward the kitchen, their holsters unbuckled, bellies full.
George's voice carried from the kitchen: "Y'all ever hear 'The Devil's Right Hand'?"
"Shut up and pour, gramps."
The first chords rang out, loud enough to mask the trapdoor's groan as Quinn slithered free.
First Man (Table, Left):
Quinn came up behind him like a shadow. The K-Bar entered below the ear, twisted, and exited in a crimson spray. The man slumped forward onto his cards.
Second Man (Table, Right):
Too busy laughing at his dead friend's "nap" to notice Quinn's hand clamping over his mouth. The knife slid between his ribs twelve times before he stopped kicking.
Third Man (Fireplace):
He turned just in time to see Quinn standing there, blood dripping onto the rug. "The hell—?"
The fireplace poker went through his eye socket with a wet crunch.
Fourth Man (Fireplace):
Fumbled for his pistol. Quinn kicked his knee backward, caught him by the hair, and introduced his face to the hearthstones. Once. Twice. Until the screaming stopped.
Fifth Man (Fireplace):
Made it three steps toward the door before Quinn's knife buried itself in his kidney. He gasped, crumpling. "Richter'll—"
Quinn yanked the blade free.
From the kitchen, George's guitar never missed a beat.