Vincent didn’t even flinch, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“We don’t have time for a full extraction,” Vincent whispered. “Just patch it.”

“You’ll bleed to death if I don’t tie off the artery,” Hale said.

He reached for a tray of sterile instruments.

Suddenly, a dull thump echoed from the front of the building.

It was quiet, almost like a heavy book dropping onto a carpeted floor.

Hale froze, the syringe in his hand suspended in mid-air.

Vincent’s hand instantly went to his belt, pulling his Glock from its leather holster.

The metal clicked as he cleared the chamber with a smooth, practiced motion.

“The front door,” Vincent whispered.

“They shouldn’t know about this place,” Hale said, his voice dropping to a low murmur.

“Corrado has deep pockets,” Vincent said, sliding off the table.

His boots hit the floor with a soft thud.

He stumbled, and I caught him by his elbow, his weight nearly knocking me over.

He leaned against me, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

I could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

“Hale, the back way,” Vincent commanded.