Unseen (Will Trent / Atlanta Series)

of the cabinets had doors. Half the ceiling had fallen down. The other half was stained dark brown. The sink had been pulled out. Plaster was missing where copper pipes and electrical wire had been ripped out of the walls and sold for scrap. The stench from the open drain was nauseating. Paul pointed his Glock into the ceiling as he checked for hiding places, then shook his head, indicating it was clear.
    They both looked at the basement door.
    This was unexpected.
    There was a wooden brace like you’d find across a barn door. A two-by-four rested on two metal U-channels that were bolted to each side of the doorframe.
    Paul gave Lena an inquisitive look. She could practically hear his thoughts. They’d talked a great deal about the basement door. In all the scenarios, they had assumed two things: the door would be locked and a bad guy would be standing on the other side with a loaded gun. The plan called for them to work with their backs to the wall—use the butt of the shotgun to break off the knob, the lock, or whatever was in their way, then yank open the door and rush into the hell that was waiting for them.
    The bracing changed things, but maybe not too much.
    Lena stood to the side, back flat to the wall as she used the muzzle of her shotgun to try to push up the wood. The fit was too tight. There was no way to slide it out. One of them would have to use both hands to heave it away, leaving his or her body as an open target to whoever might be standing on the other side of the door.
    Lena didn’t think about it for long. She tossed her shotgun to Paul. He caught it with his free hand, then backed up to give her cover.
    She had to put her shoulder into moving the brace, kneeling down and pushing up. The damn thing was wedged in there. It wouldn’t budge. She tried again, bending deep at the knees andexploding up. That worked—sort of. The board finally slipped free, but Lena stumbled back in the process, losing her balance and falling flat on her ass.
    So much for the element of surprise.
    The board clattered to the floor. Her tailbone felt like it had been cracked. There was a sharp, biting pain in her scalp where her head had met the sharp edge of the laminate counter. Her helmet had tipped forward, smashing her safety glasses into the bridge of her nose. Lena put her hand to the back of her head. The hair was wet. She looked at her fingers: blood.
    Paul stared at her, his brow furrowed, like he couldn’t understand how she’d screwed up something so easy. Lena couldn’t either, but there was no time to figure it out. She pulled herself up, keeping an eye on the closed door. She tried to shake it off. Her vision was blurry. Her nose felt like a metronome was pounding inside. She took off the safety glasses. They were cracked at the bridge. She tossed them into one of the open cabinets.
    There was a low whistle from the other room:
Don’t shoot
. Keith came into the kitchen. Mitch followed. They were both big guys, their shoulders so wide that they made the kitchen feel more like a closet.
    Lena felt a bead of sweat roll down the back of her neck. She used her hand to wipe it away. Her fingers were sticky. It wasn’t sweat, it was blood.
    Paul chewed his tongue between his front teeth, a tic she’d spotted their first week working together. It meant he was about to disagree with her. He didn’t do it much, but when he did, he meant it.
    Lena opened her mouth to take back command, but by some silent agreement, Mitch and Keith stepped forward, pulling out their flashlights as they stood on either side of the door. They all looked at Lena, but this time it was with irritation rather than expectancy.
    Reluctantly, she moved over to the sink and jammed the shotgun to her shoulder so she could at least back them up. The laughtrack on the television seemed to mock her. Lena couldn’t make out the words, just the low rumble of Weezy’s voice followed by a high-pitched response from George.
    Mitch swung open the basement door. No one shot him, so he went down the stairs. Keith followed. Paul stood at the top, Glock pointing down in case someone managed to get past the combined four hundred–plus pounds of cop.
    And then the waiting started.
    Time changed. Even the particles in the air floated at a different frequency.
    Paul didn’t move. Sweat dripped from his hands, spotted the floor. Lena held her breath as she waited for some kind of resolution—guns firing, men yelling. Her head ticked down the