Jack snatched the keys, grabbed the sentry’s collar, and used him as a human shield as he went through the door. He cleared the space, shoved the man into the far corner, and quietly shut them in.

The room was much like the one he’d been in, repartitioned office space, if he had to guess, and he found Anna on a bed much like his, with her right ankle cuffed to a chain and the chain cuffed to the frame.

She had startled awake when the door opened and let out a muffled scream, and she stared now, mouth slack, body immobile, as if not quite sure this was real.

Jack scanned the length of her.

Her eyes were red, puffy from crying, and her hair was a matted disaster, but her clothes were intact, and if she’d been hit or hurt, the cuts and bruises didn’t show. He kept the muzzle trained on the corner, flipped through the keys, found what he needed, and released her ankle.

Anna slipped off the bed and stood.

He nudged her behind him, nodded the sentry over to where she’d been, cuffed his foot as Anna’s had been cuffed, pulled her in tight, and backed toward the door.

He twisted the handle slowly, opened a crack, peered out into an empty hall, pulled Anna after him, relocked the door, put a finger to his lips, and led her back the way he’d come, pausing every few feet in search of airflow.

He felt the first draft at the edge of the hub, knelt, sniffed, followed toward the source, and a few feet farther found the outline of a door.

Palm to the wall, he pushed.

The segment gave way, opening a crack in an inward swing.

He nudged Anna to the side. “Wait here.”

Her eyes widened. She held on to his arm, and shook her head.

She didn’t want to be left behind or risk getting grabbed again.

“One minute,” he said. “Maybe less.”

Definitely less.

He was as vested in keeping her free as she was in getting free—different motive, sure, but just as much at stake—but had no time to persuade fear with logic.

He gripped her wrist, removed her hand.

This close to the outside, he no longer cared about noise or weapon reports.

This was full commitment right into the fatal tunnel, and the only thing that mattered was speed. He pushed through, weapon relaxed, low ready.

Information, details filled his head in rapid sequence.

Drab reception room. Small windows. Double front door.

Armed guard at the desk. Twenty feet.

Armed guard at the door. Twenty-five feet.

He fired toward the desk. Double tap to the chest. The guy went down, out of sight. Jack shifted left. Target at the door, reaching.

Jack pulled the trigger. Hit center chest.

The guy struggled to stay standing.

A shaking hand brought the muzzle upward.

Jack fired again.