The ’67 Firebird came to a stop in front of the house Burke felt to be the most likely candidate for the escape tunnel. All the houses on the block were single-family ranch styles with stucco walls and terra-cotta roofs. All pretty much the same. Built at the same time by the same builder, not expensive homes, but affordable middle-class living.

Burke noticed that one of the houses differed slightly from the others. They all had garages and driveways and landscaping and neatly trimmed yards. But the house he had singled out was lacking several other elements. There were no swing sets or grills in the back yard. No garden hoses. No children’s toys. No decorative signs displaying a family name or pennants supporting a favorite sports team. All of the other houses had some small detail showing that a family actually lived there, but this one had none.

It was nothing conclusive, but Burke knew that the sound he had heard had come from one of the homes in this area, and this one was as good a place to start as any.

He exited the vehicle and walked toward the squat, sandstone-colored structure. Behind him, Nic complained about his knees as Carter pushed the seat forward to release the big man from the back seat.

The house possessed an arched entryway with the front door sunken in a few feet from the front steps. There were windows on both sides of the door. Burke looked inside as best he could. There was furniture present, but no clutter, still no telltale signs of life. He rang the doorbell.

“If our terrorists are in there, they’re not going to answer the door,” Nic said. “And we’ll have to get a search warrant to enter the premises.”

“We don’t have time for that,” Burke said and walked back out toward the front steps. He reached down and retrieved a landscaping brick used as an edger around a mass of red rocks and small prickly shrubs. He headed back to the entrance and threw the brick straight through one of the small windows beside the door.

Nic raised his eyebrows and said, “You realize that I am still a cop.”

Burke stuck a cigarette in his mouth but didn’t light it. He said, “Then arrest me for vandalism.”

On the home’s interior, they found more of the same. Furniture that had never been sat on. A TV with a dusty screen that had probably never been watched. Still, someone had to come by and clean the place, probably a service. Burke knew the exact date the GoBox facility in Henderson had been erected, 734 days ago, and the house would have fallen into disrepair quickly without basic cleaning and maintenance. Someone mowed the yard and watered the plants. Maybe it was a vacation home, a pair of snowbirds who only lived here three months out of the year. Or maybe that’s just what they wanted people to think.

Knowing there was only one way to be sure, Burke said, “We need to find the basement.”