Dr. Hale reached into his medical cabinet and pulled out a small black pistol.

Vincent did not draw a weapon, but his posture went rigid.

He stepped between me and the door that led to the alley.

The red light on the panel continued to blink in its steady, silent rhythm.

Outside, the heavy rain lashed against the frosted glass of the clinic window.

A second thud, lighter than the first, sounded like a shoe scraping against the wet brick wall.

Vincent looked at Dr. Hale and gave him a single, sharp nod.

“The back exit,” Vincent whispered to me.

He grabbed my arm, his grip firm but not painful, and pulled me toward the rear of the clinic.

Dr. Hale stayed behind, his gun raised and pointed at the alley door.

We moved quickly down a narrow hallway that smelled of antiseptic and damp cardboard.

Vincent pushed open a heavy metal door that led into a small, covered garage.

A black sedan sat there, its exhaust pipe coughing a thin plume of white vapor into the cold air.