Freaked, Bronco took aim at the rodent, but stopped himself before pulling the trigger. The damned rat was the least of his problems. If anyone had heard the gun go off they’d come and investigate. Shit, shit, shit!

“No way,” he said under his breath. He just had to work faster.

Get in. Get out.

That was the plan.

Gramps had said there was some sort of hiding space at the southeast corner of the foundation, a deeper cache where he’d seen Beulah Beaumont hide her valuables.

So find it already.

Pushing aside a bike with flat tires propped against a post, he kept moving, still bent over as he stepped around a pile of empty bottles that had been stacked near the brick foundation. He ran the beam over ancient bricks stacked nearly four feet tall that made up the foundation. Carefully he eyed the mortar, searching for any cracks and— in a second he saw the seam. Partially hidden by an ancient armoire, he noticed a flaw in the design where the pattern of the bricks changed.

The old man hadn’t lied.

With renewed effort, he held the flashlight in his teeth and shoved one shoulder against the armoire, shoving the heavy chest to one side, wedging it tight against a stack of stained boxes. Sure enough, the seam was the outline of a small door cut into the bricks.

He just had to figure out how to open it. He had no more keys, no crow bar, but as he shined his light over the seam in the bricks, he ran the tips of his fingers over the rough edges of the mortar.

No knob.

No pull.

No handle of any kind.

Damn.

There had to be a way.

More carefully he touched the edges of the seam again but … nothing. “Come on, come on,” he muttered in frustration.

No one said it would be easy, but he could use an effin’ break.

Thump, thump, thump, thump!

The noise thundered through the basement.

Bronco froze.

What the hell?

Oh, shit! Someone was running across the porch!

No!

Had he closed the outside door? Locked it behind him? Hell, no!

Crap!

Why was anyone out here after the damned storm?

In one motion, he ducked, dimmed his flashlight, and raised his gun, his eyes trained laser-sharp on the foot of the stairs where only the faintest shaft of illumination was visible. Sweat drizzled into his eyes.

Could he really do it?

Kill a man? Or a woman? Or a damned kid?

Crap, crap, crap!

Heavy breathing, more thumping as whoever it was rounded that final landing.

Oh, Jesus. Someone heard the shot! That’s what it was!

Bronco’s finger tightened over the trigger.

In a blur of motion a shadow leaped from the final steps.

He fired—Bang!—and caught a glimpse of shiny fur as an animal yelped in pain.

No! His stupid dog! Jesus Christ, he’d just killed his damned dog!