I thought I was driving up to my late wife’s cabin to finally say goodbye. Instead, I found two abandoned twin girls standing barefoot on the deck, clutching stale crackers like they were the last things keeping them alive. Minutes later, one of them whispered my wife’s name… and pointed me toward a concealed path only Sarah had ever known.

"Keep moving forward," I whispered to Elena, pushing her gently down the tunnel. "Follow the right wall. Don't stop until you feel the draft from the ventilation shaft."

"What about you?" she asked, panic lacing her voice.

"I'm going to buy you time. Go."

Elena didn't argue. She grabbed the twins' hands and vanished into the darkness.

I pressed my back against the cold stone wall, waiting. I listened to the heavy, echoing footsteps growing closer. Miller was alone. The deputies were likely dead or too cowardly to enter the labyrinth.

The beam of Miller's flashlight cut through the darkness, sweeping across the tunnel walls. He was moving slowly, his revolver drawn, scanning every crevice.

"You think you're a hero, Vance?" Miller taunted, his voice bouncing off the rocks. "Your wife thought she was a hero too. You know what she said right before we pushed her car off the cliff? She begged. She begged for her life."

Rage, hot and blinding, surged through my veins. He was trying to bait me. He wanted me to make a mistake. I closed my eyes, focusing on the sound of his boots scraping against the gravel.

Five yards. Four yards. Three yards.

When his flashlight beam swept past my alcove, I stepped out into the tunnel.

I didn't shoot. I swung the heavy wooden stock of the shotgun like a baseball bat. It connected sickeningly with Miller's wrist. The bone snapped with a loud crack, and his revolver clattered to the stone floor, discharging a wild shot into the ceiling.

Miller roared in pain, dropping his flashlight, plunging us both into near-darkness, illuminated only by the faint, rolling beam of the dropped light.

He lunged at me, tackling me to the ground. For a man with a broken wrist, he was terrifyingly strong. He pinned me to the gravel, his good hand wrapping around my throat, squeezing with brutal force.

"I'm going to kill you," Miller spat, his face inches from mine, his breath smelling of stale coffee and chewing tobacco. "And then I'm going to take those girls back to the auction block."

My vision began to swim with black spots. I couldn't pry his thick fingers from my throat. My lungs screamed for oxygen. My hands flailed blindly against the rocky floor, searching for anything.

My fingers brushed against a heavy, jagged piece of loose slate.

I gripped it tightly, summoned every last ounce of strength I had left, and smashed the rock directly into the side of Miller's head.

He grunted, his grip loosening just enough for me to suck in a desperate, ragged breath. I hit him again. And again. Until his eyes rolled back and his dead weight collapsed onto my chest.