Save Your Breath (Morgan Dane #6) - Melinda Leigh Page 0,38

cardboard moving boxes were stacked in what Lance assumed was the family room at the back of the house.

“This window is unlocked. Give me a boost.” Sharp tugged on a pair of gloves and pushed up a window sash. “We have the place to ourselves. We might not get this opportunity again.”

Lance boosted him over the sill. Then he returned to the rear corner of the building to watch the long driveway in case Mr. Olander came home. Sharp returned in fifteen minutes. “I checked the closets, attic, and basement. She’s not here. Let’s look next door.”

They jogged across the meadow and repeated the process at the main house, except Sharp had to jimmy a window to gain access.

“There’s no interior basement door,” Sharp said as he climbed out of the window and dropped onto the grass. He reached up to close the window.

“It’s an old house. It was common to only have an exterior entrance to the basement.”

They moved to a set of bulkhead doors around back. A chain and padlock secured the handles.

“We’ve already searched ninety percent of the property. We can rule out this last space pretty quick.” Sharp took lockpick tools from his wallet and began to work on the lock.

Lance didn’t bother to argue. This was not a normal investigation. If there was any chance—no matter how remote—that Olivia was in the Olanders’ basement, then they would look.

Sharp had the padlock off in two minutes.

“Wait.” Lance pulled gloves from his pocket and put them on.

They each grabbed a handle. The doors were rusted around the edges but opened easily. Wooden stairs descended into darkness. Sharp took a flashlight from his jacket pocket and shone it into the opening. All they could see was a few square feet of hard-packed earth and footprints.

“Someone’s been down there recently.” Sharp descended the steps with no hesitation. He shone the flashlight straight down and examined the footprints in the dust. “Looks like the same pair of boots made all these tracks.”

Lance followed him, switching on his own flashlight. Partitions divided the basement into what appeared to be storage areas. Shelves covered with dusty boxes lined the first area. Block print labeled the boxes as CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS and ERIK’S LITTLE LEAGUE TROPHIES.

Lance lifted a few lids. The labels seemed to be accurate.

They moved to the next section, a huge shelved closet where labels on the shelves indicated the family had stored a large quantity of nonperishable food. A box of MREs and a few mason jars of home-canned tomatoes and peaches remained.

The last area held four old steamer trunks.

“What do you think is in here?” Sharp stood in front of a trunk and examined a keyed padlock that secured the lid.

Dirt and cobwebs coated the trunks, and the concrete around the trunks was covered in a thin layer of dirt that was clear of footprints.

“It doesn’t look as if anyone has accessed them lately, but there’s only one way to find out. We’ve already committed a B and E. We might as well finish the job.” Lance went to the second trunk. He kept his own set of lockpicking tools in his wallet.

“Good point.”

The trunk was old and the lock simple. Lance had it open in less than thirty seconds.

Sharp raised the lid of his trunk and whistled softly. “Holy shit.”

Lance looked over. Sharp’s trunk was full of rifles.

Sharp whistled. “These are AR-15s.”

Lance raised the lid of his trunk. It was full of boxes of bullets. “There’s enough ammunition in here to supply a small militia.”

The third trunk held more weapons, while the fourth was full of body armor and gas masks.

Sharp waved a hand over the trunks. “What the hell is Olander doing with all this?”

“I don’t know.” Lance closed the lid and relocked it. “But Olivia isn’t down here.”

With a short nod, Sharp returned his crate to its original locked state. “The pistol grips on those rifles are not legal.”

In New York State, a permit was not required to own a long gun, but certain features on semiautomatic rifles were illegal.

“Neither are these high-capacity magazines,” Lance said. The sheer volume of weaponry was also highly suspect. “We should tell Stella.”

“How do we explain finding them?”

“Good point,” Lance said. “We’ll have to find a way around that. She’ll need to coordinate with the ATF.”

The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives would be interested in the possible illegal trafficking of firearms.

“You’re right,” Sharp admitted with a sigh.

Lance led the way out of the basement, blinking at the daylight. The