The first step sounded like the cabin had finally decided to breathe.
We were a tableau of terror. Marcus had his pistol leveled at the stairs, his thumb already easing the safety. Noah was hyperventilating, his flashlight beam trembling like a dying star. Ace stood shoulder-to-shoulder with us, the shotgun barrel pointed at the gloom.
And me. My rifle was aimed, my finger curled against the trigger guard, but my hands were failing me. It wasn't fear making me shake. It was hope. And hope had become the most dangerous thing I possessed.
The boots appeared first.
Heavy, mud-caked, tactical soles that clicked rhythmically against the hardwood. Click. Clack. Click. Each step was deliberate, slow, lacking the frantic energy of an intruder. A figure stepped out of the shadows of the landing
