Xavier gave Audrey his gun—a Glock, like hers, making him glad he didn’t have to waste time with instructions. “It’s chambered.”

She pointed it away from him and looked down the sights. He noted her grip, thumbs aligned on one side, index finger along the trigger guard. She didn’t look comfortable, but she had the basics down. Good.

She lowered the gun and met his gaze. “Ready.”

From the determined set of her chin, he believed her. But from the shaking of her hands, he knew she was terrified.

“You got this,” he said, touching her cheek. Her skin was cold and wet, but that wasn’t the cause of her trembling.

She gave a sharp nod, and he dropped his hand. Precious seconds were ticking by.

“Have you been inside the yurt before?” he asked.

“No.”

“The basement is divided into two semicircular rooms. We’ll search both, then take the curved stairway along the wall to the main floor, where the command center is.”

He turned, crouched low, and headed for the basement door. She followed on his heels. They reached the door, and he took a position on the opposite side. “I’ll go in first. You come in behind me, covering the part of the room I’m facing away from.”

“Got it.”

Xavier couldn’t believe he was about to enter and clear a building with an archaeologist armed only with a paintball gun as his backup. This after finding a man who’d been nearly decapitated with an axe, and before that, grappling with a man wielding a knife and sporting an AK-47 on his back.

This shit was real, and she had zero training on how to handle it, but he had to give her credit for facing it head-on. That was more than he had any right to hope for.

He slipped his key in the lock he’d oiled just yesterday. It turned smooth and silent. He pocketed the key before giving Audrey a nod. Go time.

He used his flashlight to scan the room, hoping to temporarily blind anyone in the dark or wearing NVGs. Audrey slipped in behind him, moving too quickly and nearly tripping on his heel, but he was damn lucky to have any backup at all.

The room was empty, and they repeated the flanking maneuver and entered the basement utility room. A fast search showed it was also empty.

He led the way up the stairs, footsteps muted by seventies-era shag carpet and rain pounding on the metal roof. The yurt had the musty smell of wet dog and furnishings made ten years before he was born. Add the scent of spicy Mexican food to the smell and it could be his grandmother’s house. He’d been living in the yurt for the last week, and the reminder of his long-passed abuela had been comforting until now.