Behind us, a heavy steel door groaned shut, and the sound of the locks clicking into place echoed like thunder.

The air grew warmer, smelling of sterilizing alcohol and old paper instead of damp earth.

We emerged into a small, windowless basement room lined with metal shelves of medical supplies.

“Are you hurt?” Dr. Hale asked, setting his silver case on a stainless-steel table.

“I’m fine,” I said, though my voice shook and my knees felt like water.

Vincent leaned against the wall, his coat torn and stained with wet plaster.

“Paul got away in the dark,” Vincent said, his eyes fixed on the floor. “And Corrado’s men are crawling through the access lines.”

“They won’t find this entrance,” Dr. Hale said, opening his case to pull out a bottle of antiseptic. “But we cannot stay here long.”

Vincent looked at me, his dark eyes assessing the dirt on my face and the trembling of my hands.

He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a small, heavy black revolver, offering it to me handle-first.