They moved like ghosts.
Dickson's shoes scuffed the marble. His breaths were loud in his own ears. Vanessa was a shadow at the rail, eyes narrowing. She peered over the floor like a predator. The main hall looked abandoned. Chairs lay tipped. A lone table canted on its side. Light from the broken chandelier painted jagged patterns on the floor.
No hostages. No guards.
Nothing but silence.
"Where the hell are they?" Dickson mouthed, low. He hated how small his voice sounded. He hated that his hands were shaking.
Vanessa didn't answer. She slid down the bannister and dropped the last few feet, landing cat-quiet on the marble. Her mask hid most of her face, but not the way her jaw worked. Not the way her fingers tightened around the small knife at her hip.
Static crackled.
It started soft. Then it filled the hall like a cold whisper.
