One of the guards opened the back door for me.

“Get in,” Vincent said, standing by the door frame. “I will follow in the second car.”

I slid onto the cold leather seat, and Dr. Hale sat beside me.

The heavy door slammed shut, cutting off the sound of the idling engine.

We drove through the dark, rainy streets of Manhattan for nearly an hour.

The headlights of oncoming cars smeared yellow and red across the wet passenger window.

I watched the city blur past, wondering if this was the last time I would ever see these streets.

Eventually, the car slowed down and turned into a narrow alleyway between two brick buildings.

We stopped in front of a heavy iron gate, which rolled open slowly with a loud rattle.

The car parked inside a small, enclosed courtyard.

“We are here,” Dr. Hale said, opening his door.

I followed him out into the cold rain, shielding my face with my hand.

The safehouse was a modest two-story brick house with thick curtains drawn over every window.

Inside, the air was warm and smelled of wood polish and old paper.