We stepped out into the blinding snow of the loading dock.

The wind whipped my hair across my face, stinging my eyes.

A nondescript grey SUV sat idling in the shadows of the dock, its headlights off.

Adrian opened the passenger door and helped me inside.

“Stay low,” he said.

He ran around to the driver’s side and slid into the seat, slamming the door.

He threw the vehicle into reverse, the tires spinning on the slick ice before catching.

We surged out of the dock and into the whiteout of the Chicago streets.

The city was a blur of gray buildings and swirling snow.

Adrian drove without lights, navigating the side streets with practiced ease.

“Where are we going?” I asked, clutching the dashboard as we skidded slightly around a corner.

“A safe place,” he said, his eyes scanning the mirrors.

“Miller will look for us at the estate,” I said. “He knows your safehouses.”

“Not this one,” Adrian replied. “Nobody knows about this one.”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and rolled down his window.