“Too late,” Marco’s voice cracked through the speaker, accompanied by another deafening crash. “They’re in the room.”

A woman’s scream cut through the static, high and thin.

It was Vivian.

“Get off me!” she shrieked.

Then came the heavy, blunt sound of a physical struggle.

A man’s voice, unfamiliar and harsh, barked an order. “Secure her! Leave the guard!”

“Like hell,” Marco growled.

Two rapid gunshots followed.

They were different from the automatic fire, closer to the microphone, sharp and localized.

A body hit the floor with a dull, heavy thud on the other end of the line.

“Vivian, run!” Marco shouted.

“I can’t!” she sobbed. “The window—”

“Go!” Marco yelled.

The sound of shattering glass came through again, followed by the wet rush of the cold Chicago rain.

Ryker leaned over the desk, his palms flat on the wood.

“Marco, what is your status?” Ryker demanded.

There was only the sound of heavy breathing and the steady patter of rain.

“I have her,” Marco panted a moment later. “We are in the alley. Behind the diner.”

“The backup team is three minutes out,” Ryker said.