Dr. Hale stepped into the hallway, carrying a heavy leather medical bag and a thick manila folder.

“We had to take the service entrance,” Dr. Hale said, his voice quiet and steady.

“Corrado’s people are watching the front of the building,” he added, looking at Miller.

Miller wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Did they follow you?” Miller asked.

“No,” Dr. Hale replied, adjusting his glasses. “We took three different vehicles to get here.”

Vincent turned to me, his dark eyes searching my face.

“It is time to move, Lena,” Vincent said.

“The safehouse is ready,” he added, gesturing toward the elevator.

I nodded, my fingers tightening around the strap of my small bag.

We walked into the elevator in silence.

The air inside the small metal box smelled of damp wool and Dr. Hale’s antiseptic soap.

Nobody spoke as the elevator descended to the basement garage.

The garage was cold, smelling of gasoline and old concrete.

A black sedan sat waiting with its engine idling, thin white exhaust rising toward the low ceiling.