We stumbled up the muddy embankment toward a chain-link fence.

A black sedan was parked on the gravel shoulder of the road beyond the fence, its headlights off.

Vincent reached into his pocket and pressed a button on his key fob.

The sedan’s parking lights flashed once.

“Is that your car?” I asked.

“Hale left it for us,” Vincent said.

As we reached the fence, the iron grate behind us clattered open.

Two men scrambled out of the tunnel, their guns raised.

“There!” one of them shouted.

Before they could aim, the passenger door of the black sedan swung open.

A man stepped out, holding a rifle.

He fired two quick shots over our heads, the loud reports echoing off the metal sides of the empty train cars.

The two men from the tunnel ducked back into the darkness of the trench.

“Get in!” the driver shouted.

It was Dr. Hale.

His face was pale, his white coat gone, replaced by a dark leather jacket.

Vincent pushed me toward the back door of the car.

I scrambled inside, sliding across the leather seat.