Roman reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a heavy black handgun, checking the chamber with a sharp, metallic slide.

“We go tonight,” Roman said. “Just the two of us.”

“Roman, you are in no condition to fight,” Dr. Patel warned, packing his medical bag.

“I don’t plan on fighting,” Roman said, tossing a heavy dark coat to me. “I plan on moving fast.”

I pulled the coat over my shoulders, the scent of expensive wool and pine wrapping around me as we headed for the garage.

The garage was cold, smelling of oil, rubber, and wet concrete.

A black armored SUV sat waiting, its engine purring quietly in the shadows.

Roman opened the passenger door for me, his hand warm against my shoulder for a brief second before he climbed into the driver’s seat.

The garage door rolled open, letting in the freezing Chicago wind and the smell of wet asphalt.

As Roman shifted the vehicle into drive, the dashboard screen suddenly lit up with a bright blue flash.

A text message from an unknown number appeared across the screen.