They were cutting through the hinges of the door.

“They’re coming,” I said, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Vincent pulled me into a narrow alcove behind a massive iron water main.

He was trembling, his forehead covered in cold sweat.

“Take this,” he said, pressing a small, cold revolver into my hand.

The metal was heavy and smelled of gun oil.

“I don’t know how to use this,” I whispered.

“Point and pull the trigger,” he said. “Keep moving down this pipe. Don’t look back.”

“I’m not leaving you,” I said, tears blurring my vision.

“You have to,” he said, his face pale as paper in the dim light. “I’ll slow them down.”

The iron door burst open with a loud metallic crash that echoed through the tunnel.

Shouting voices filled the space, distorted by the stone walls.

“They went down the main line!” a man yelled.

Vincent stepped out of the alcove, aiming his gun toward the entrance of the tunnel.

He began firing, the deafening blasts shaking dust from the brick ceiling.

“Go, Lena!” he screamed.