We scrambled into the back, and the heavy sliding door slammed shut, plunging us into darkness.

The van accelerated quickly, throwing me against the metal side panel.

“We are heading to the primary safe house,” Isabella said through the gloom.

“Adrian is already there.”

“Is he alright?” I asked, clutching my bruised shins.

“He is angry,” Isabella said. “And he is done running.”

We drove in silence for fifteen minutes, navigating the winding side streets of the industrial district.

The van finally slowed down and descended a concrete ramp into a subterranean garage.

The air down here smelled of oil, old rubber, and damp earth.

Isabella opened the door and helped me out of the van.

We walked down a narrow concrete corridor lit by flickering fluorescent tubes.

At the end of the hall stood a heavy steel security door with a digital keypad.

Isabella punched in a long code, and the lock clicked open.

Inside, the room was warm and smelled of old paper and copper wire.

A large metal desk occupied the center of the space, covered in computer monitors and glowing external hard drives.