The tunnel turned sharply to the left.

The water here was deeper, reaching up to my shins, cold and thick with debris.

I stumbled over something metal beneath the surface—an old pipe or a discarded tool.

I went down on my knees, the freezing water soaking through my jeans.

“Lena,” Vincent said, pulling me up by my underarms.

“I’m fine,” I gasped, though my teeth were chattering violently.

The lights behind us turned the corner, illuminating the tunnel walls with a sickly yellow glow.

“There they are!”

Vincent shoved me behind another concrete column.

He turned and fired three times in rapid succession.

One of the flashlights dropped into the water, its beam pointing uselessly at the ceiling.

Another man cried out and cursed, his boots scraping frantically against the brick wall as he sought cover.

“They have automatic weapons,” Vincent said, his voice tight. “We cannot hold them here.”

He looked down at me, his face pale in the reflected light of the enemy’s flashlight.

“The exit is fifty yards ahead,” he said. “A iron grate. It is old and rusted.”