The scream didn’t come from the ducting this time.

It came from somewhere below their feet.

Fizz froze mid-step, torch beam trembling against the stone. Georgie spun, hand going instinctively to where her Glock would be if this were a live firearms job instead of a cold case gone feral.

May was the first to move.

“This way,” he said, already heading for the narrower of the two doors. Samson hesitated a fraction too long, weighing authority against instinct, and then followed.

Riggs brought up the rear, muttering something about not being paid enough for “spelunking in murder tunnels.”

The second scream was weaker. A wet, collapsing sound, more exhale than cry.

Georgie reached the bottom of the half-rotten stairs first. Her boots hit da...

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