The smell of burnt gunpowder filled the small space, hot and sulfurous.

The two figures collapsed into the hallway, their gear clattering against the tile floor.

“We move now,” Giovanni said, not looking back.

He grabbed my arm and pulled me toward a small door behind the gurney.

It was a gray metal service door, marked only with a plastic utility sign.

“Where does this lead?” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“The service elevator and the basement dock,” Giovanni said. “My men are holding the lower exit.”

He pushed the door open, revealing a narrow, concrete stairwell.

The air inside was cold and smelled of damp cement and old dust.

Another burst of gunfire echoed from the pediatric wing behind us, louder this time.

I heard glass shattering and the shouting of men in foreign accents.

We hurried down the concrete steps, my sneakers squeaking on the grit.

Giovanni kept one hand on my back, guiding me, his gun pointed downward.

Luca whimpered in my arms, his small body shivering under his blue blanket.

I adjusted the plastic mask over his face, praying the oxygen would keep him stable.