“My car is in the emergency bay, but we can’t take it,” Liam said.

“They’ll be watching it.”

He pulled a set of keys from his pocket.

“We take the old utility truck,” he said.

He pointed to a battered, blue Ford pickup parked in a dark corner near the trash compactors.

It was covered in dust, the logo of the hospital’s maintenance department faded on the door.

We ran across the cold concrete, our footsteps echoing.

I climbed into the passenger seat, tucking the leather bag securely between my feet.

Liam slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key.

The engine coughed, sputtered, then roared to life with a loud rattle.

He threw the truck into reverse and backed out of the space.

We drove up the exit ramp, bypassing the main security gates.

Liam used his hospital badge to swipe open the side utility gate.

We pulled out onto the wet, slick streets of the city just as the rain began to fall.

I looked back in the side mirror.

Two black SUVs were pulling into the hospital’s main entrance, their high beams cutting through the dark.