It's just like any other hostage situation, Tom tells himself. They've racked up enough of them over the years. It's just like all those other times, you get in, talk everyone down, and you get out, and hopefully everyone walks away healthy, unharmed. One foot in front of the other until you're clear.

But everything has changed. They're dirty, hungry, dehydrated and the smell of smoke is getting stronger, and maybe Neil is halfway across town with Florence by now, or maybe Neil's already been sold off, beaten, rap-

Tom took a deep breath. This isn't like anything he's experienced. No bodies, but the whole fucking place smells like blood. Sharing one last look with Mike he shouldered open the door and waited just a moment for his eyes to adjust.

He sees a lot in just a few seconds and something dark and primal clawed it's way through his breastbone, all teeth and blood and hate. He forgets the gun for a brief moment and coldcocks the kid on the stairs - seventeen? eighteen? Could he convince himself he cared? - startling a bloody spray of spit out of him and a garbled shout.

"Hands off him," Tom said, hands shaking with adrenaline and restrained violence. He remembered the gun and pulled it up, leveling it at the man that was...that was down in the darkness of the cellar, with Neil. The kid had fallen to the bottom of the stairs and was cursing, scrappling for a weapon stashed in his clothes.

"That's enough!" he barked, easing down the stairs. "Hands. Off."