Vincent climbed in after me, collapsing heavily against the seatback.

Hale slammed his door, threw the car into reverse, and hit the gas.

The tires spun on the wet gravel, throwing up a cloud of dirt before catching the asphalt.

We surged forward into the dark, rainy night.

I looked back through the rear window.

The two men from the tunnel were standing on the gravel shoulder, watching us disappear into the gloom.

One of them was holding a phone to his ear.

Vincent lay back against the seat, his eyes closed, his breathing shallow.

His hand had fallen away from his side.

The front of his white shirt was soaked in bright, crimson blood.

“Hale,” I said, my voice cracking. “He’s bleeding.”

Hale looked in the rearview mirror, his face hardening.

“There is a medical kit in the glove box,” Hale said. “Open it. Get the sterile pads.”

I reached forward, my hands shaking so violently I could barely open the compartment.

I found the white plastic box and pulled out a handful of gauze.

“Press them against the wound,” Hale said, turning the car sharply onto a dark side street. “Hard.”