“They’re resetting,” Roman gasped, leaning heavily against the wall. “We need to get to the vault.”

He took a step, but his knees buckled, and he slid halfway down the wall.

I caught him under his arms, his massive frame nearly pulling me down with him.

“Roman!” I whispered, looking down at his torso.

A dark, wet patch was blooming across his lower abdomen, steaming slightly in the cold air of the hallway.

He had been shot through the side, a clean entry wound that was pumping blood into his trousers.

“I’m fine,” he lied, his teeth clenched so hard his jaw groaned. “Get me up.”

“You can’t walk,” I said, my hands already slick with his blood.

“I can walk,” he muttered, though his eyes were rolling back toward his eyelids.

From the courtyard outside, a vehicle engine roared, tires spinning on the wet gravel.

They were circling back to the front entrance.

“Mara!” I screamed into the dark hallway. “Mara, help me!”

A door opened at the far end of the gallery, and Mara’s pale face peered out.