CHAPTER 4
The silence that followed the snapping of the heavy cellar lock was far more terrifying than any sound that had preceded it.
I drew my Glock 17 from its holster, driving the front sight post straight toward the dark opening while keeping my body positioned squarely between the cellar and the young boy.
"Police! Step out into the light with your hands empty!" I yelled, my voice ringing out with absolute command authority through the decaying house.
From the pitch-black abyss of the basement stairs, a tall, shadowy figure stepped slowly into the pale beam of my tactical flashlight.
It was Silas's father, Thomas Granger, wearing a grease-stained canvas apron covered in fresh dark stains, holding a heavy steel prybar in his right hand.
His face was gaunt, covered in a thick layer of soot and sweat, but his eyes were wide, manic, and completely devoid of human warmth or sanity.
"You shouldn't have brought him back here, Officer," Thomas said softly, his voice eerily calm as he took a slow step up the wooden stair tread. "We were almost finished with the work."
"Drop the weapon right now, Thomas!" I barked, stepping forward and aligning my sights directly with his center chest mass. "Drop the iron bar and put your hands on your head!"
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Thomas looked down at his seven-year-old son, a cold, terrifying smile stretching across his hollow cheeks. "Silas knows why we're down there. Tell the nice officer what Grandma left us under the concrete, son."
"He's lying!" Silas screamed from the doorway, tears finally spilling over his dark eyes. "He isn't trying to fix the house! He's digging up the vault!"
