The flashlight beams from both tunnels danced across the wet brick walls, getting closer and closer.

I could hear the squelch of tactical boots in the mud.

“Drop the weapon!” a man’s voice barked from the left tunnel.

I raised the gun, aiming it at the center of the bright light ahead.

My hands were shaking, but I held the grip with both hands, bracing my elbows.

Suddenly, my phone vibrated violently in my pocket.

The screen lit up against my chest, casting a pale blue glow over my chin.

I risked a glance down at the screen.

It was a text message from an unsaved number.

The message read:

*Look up.*

I looked up.

The ceiling of the tunnel was a rusted iron grate, five feet above my head.

A face leaned over the metal bars.

It was Giovanni.

He reached his hand down through a wide gap where a bar had been cut away.

“Give me your hand,” he whispered.

His voice was low, steady, and familiar in the dark.

I grabbed Sullivan’s arm first.

“Go,” I muttered, pushing the doctor toward the rusted ladder bolted to the wet brick.