The phone kept ringing, its high-pitched chime bouncing off the narrow corridor walls.

It was a cheerful, default ringtone that sounded sickeningly out of place in the dark hallway.

Marcus lowered his weapon slightly, his eyes narrowing as he took a step toward the closet.

The shadow of his boots blocked the sliver of yellow light under the door.

My breath caught in my throat, hot and tight.

Damiano didn’t hesitate.

He thrust the closet door open with his shoulder, sending the wooden slats crashing into Marcus’s chest.

Marcus stumbled backward, his silver revolver firing once into the ceiling.

Plaster rained down on us in a heavy white cloud, stinging my eyes and sticking to my eyelashes.

Damiano grabbed my wrist and pulled me out into the smoky hallway.

My heel caught on a piece of broken drywall, but Damiano’s grip was like steel, keeping me upright.

We ran down the back stairs, our footsteps echoing in the cold concrete shaft.

Behind us, Marcus was coughing and shouting my name, his voice echoing off the brick.