Gillian expected the soft creaks of the wood all around and stayed quiet, pretending to be asleep. Until she heard a different creak, hardly louder. There he was, sneaking closer from behind like the rabid rat he was. She dropped her right hand to her lap as if it had just moved in her sleep, and slipped it to the holster on her thigh. She couldn't tip Ron and Hank off over the radio and risk being heard.

Another creak, one step closer. An exasperating pause. A third creak, closer than she thought. Her fingers tightened around the butt of her twenty-two, every muscle tense, ready to move. At the next creak, Gillian jumped to her feet and spun around, already stretching out her arm to point the twenty-two at Carl Bailey.

But he was only a step away, and smashed his fist into her face. Gillian stumbled back as he smacked her hand to make her drop the gun. Before it slipped from her fingers, she got to pull the trigger.

Carl Bailey was strong and ruthless, and he moved swiftly for a crippled man. He backhanded her, so hard she felt blood in her mouth, and pushed her down, face to the table, his hand squeezing the back of her neck as she uselessly tried to kick him or punch him. He stuck a needle in the side of her neck right when Ron and Hank burst in, from the front and the backdoor at the same time.

"STEP BACK!" Ron thundered.

But just as Brock had foreseen, the man wasn't about to go down again. So instead of doing as Ron ordered, he roughly pulled Gillian up to his chest and showed them the empty hypodermic in his hand. Then, with a vicious smile, he stuck the needle in Gillian's neck again.

She tried to free herself but he grabbed her hair, forcing her head up and back, against his shoulder.

"Drop your guns or the ginger dies," he said with a maniac joy. "There's nothing but air in the hypo. How long till it reaches her heart?"

He limped backwards to the fireplace, dragging Gillian with him, to face Ron and Hank, who didn't lower their guns.

"DROP THEM!" Bailey barked.

Gillian saw Brock storm in to a sharp stop a step behind Ron, his Glock openly pointing at Bailey's head. Her sight was growing blurry: she was about to pass out. So she set her jaw and focused.

"Easy, Bailey, don't do anything stupid," Hank said to get the man's attention. "Just let her go, okay?"

Gillian felt Bailey turn his face to Hank and she met Ron's eyes. Everything started spinning and she struggled to stay conscious. She didn't have much time left.

"Why don't you come and get'er, you asshole? And let's see how it goes!"

Brock saw Gillian's fingers count down against her thigh, and heard Ron whisper the numbers on the radio. His chest burned cold at the sight of the bloody bruise on her cheek, more blood dripping from her nose and a cracked lip. Then he noticed the red dot of light fixed on her temple. The quick countdown was at one and Brock cocked his gun, exhaling.

Ron and Hank lowered their guns. At the same time, Gillian pulled sharply to the side, making Bailey turn half a step to the front door, so the red dot of light was now on his forehead. Brock heard a soft crack from the front window and the red dot turned from light to blood on Bailey's forehead.

The man crumbled down, dragging Gillian to the floor with him. Before Brock could even try a step to her, Ron and Hank were already by her side. Hank removed the needle from her neck as Ron held her up. She grabbed his shoulders to try to stand up and passed out.

While Hank searched Bailey's body for weapons, Ron lifted Gillian gently in his arms and took her to one of the armchairs. Fred stormed in, rifle in hand. He scanned the place before lowering it, then turned to Ron with a questioning nod to Gillian. Ron flashed a tight smile, resting Gillian's head on the back of the armchair. Fred sighed, relieved.

Brock grabbed Gillian's coat from the chair, handed it to Ron to cover her and looked around, then he signaled the others to stay silent. Hank straightened up, pointing his gun at the inner door: a low, muffled murmur came from in there.

Ron stood up by Gillian, gun drawn, ready to defend her.

Fred lifted his rifle again as Brock tiptoed to the inner door and peered in. Nothing. No light from the other rooms of the cabin. He produced his small flashlight and directed it down the hall. He peered in again but saw no movement, so he stuck to the wall by the door and traded a look with Hank, who had also produced a flashlight.

Hank tiptoed closer and yanked the door open, stepping back right away to give Brock room to sneak in. He and Fred followed Brock in and they walked noiselessly down the dark hall.

They passed by the door to an empty bedroom. Brock left it for Fred to check as he and Hank went on. The biochemist took the second door, which opened to the empty bathroom. Brock paused before the third and last door, pushed it open, waited for a heartbeat, burst in.

Another bedroom, also empty. He was scanning around, still at the doorway, when he heard again the same murmur, a little louder this time. It came from the floor. He turned off the flashlight and spotted the soft yellow glow leaking from underneath the floorboards. The surviving victim from Springfield had mentioned she'd been captive in an underground pen. And the murmur was a woman crying.

He turned on the ceiling lamp and searched the room, but couldn't find any trapdoor or opening. Until he pushed the bed to the side. And there it was, outlined by the light coming from under it.

"Morris, Schwarz!" he called out.