That was my real weapon.

“Five seconds, Lena,” Vincent warned, his own gun drawn and pointed at the ceiling.

“The hatch is giving way.”

“I can’t do it,” I whispered, my voice shaking.

“I won’t do it this way.”

Vincent’s eyes flicked to me, a shadow of disappointment—or perhaps surprise—crossing his face.

Before he could speak, the iron grating above us gave way with a deafening screech of tearing metal.

A heavy combat boot shattered the plaster.

A man in black tactical gear dropped through the opening, landing heavily in the shallow water.

A bright flashlight beam sliced through the darkness, blinding me instantly.

“Down!” Vincent roared.

He fired two rapid shots, the sound exploding in the enclosed space of the tunnel.

The muzzle flash illuminated the damp walls in brief, violent bursts of orange light.

The attacker fell backward, his rifle clattering against the concrete.

Paul screamed and scrambled away on his hands and knees, splashing wildly in the dark.

Another shadow began to lower itself through the ceiling hatch.

Suddenly, a heavy, metallic thud echoed from the opposite end of the tunnel behind us.