“The maintenance tunnels lead to the old subway line,” Hale said, reaching under the desk for a heavy black bag.

A second sound came, louder this time.

It was the sound of splintering wood from the main entrance.

Then, the soft, rhythmic *thwip-thwip* of suppressed gunshots.

The drywall in the hallway exploded in a shower of white plaster.

A bullet tore through the glass cabinet behind us, shattering the remaining bottles.

“Go!” Vincent hissed, pushing me toward the rear exit of the room.

We scrambled down a narrow corridor lined with supply shelves.

Boxes of bandages and plastic tubing fell to the floor around us as we pushed past.

Hale was in the lead, his flashlight cutting through the darkness of the rear hallway.

Behind us, the heavy footsteps of armed men echoed on the linoleum.

They were moving fast, clearing the rooms with practiced efficiency.

“Stop!” a voice shouted from the dark corridor behind us.

Vincent turned, raising his weapon with a steady hand despite his injury.

He fired twice into the darkness.

The muzzle flash illuminated the hallway for a split second.