Hale got the lock open and threw the heavy door back.

A gust of cold, foul-smelling air rushed out to meet us.

It was a vast underground network of brick tunnels, built a century ago.

Water dripped from the ceiling, pooling in the center of the concrete walkway.

“Follow the main pipe,” Hale said, handing Vincent a spare magazine. “I’ll draw them toward the old boiler room.”

“Hale, no,” Vincent said.

“It’s the only way you make it out,” Hale said, his face grim.

Before Vincent could argue, Hale slammed the iron door shut behind us.

We heard the heavy lock click into place from the outside.

Hale’s running footsteps faded down the opposite hallway.

“We have to move, Lena,” Vincent said, his voice straining.

He leaned heavily on my shoulder as we walked deeper into the wet darkness.

The only light came from the occasional dim bulb hanging from the vaulted ceiling.

The brick walls were slick with green moss and condensation.

Behind us, we heard the muffled sound of gunshots through the iron door.

Then came the harsh screech of metal grinding against metal.