I pick up my pace as I weave through the shadows inside the bank. Past the dusty tellers’ desks, through the back office area. I duck behind the biggest desk, a mahogany monstrosity too heavy for anyone to steal. A sheet of rusted metal is pushed up against the wall here. Careful not to make any noise, I set the transmitter down, tap what passes as the “door frame,” then nudge the metal away and duck into the gaping hole behind it. I quietly slide the metal sheet back into place once I’ve got the transmitter through. A few of its dials are still glowing. I pull the poncho partway off so that I can navigate the tunnels by their dim light. As I weave my way into the familiar darkness, I breathe a little easier. I made it. I’m safe now.

I come to a crossroads where the mines connect to the sewers. Storm runoff rushes through the tunnel ahead of me, a knee-high river of snarling white water. Bracing my steps carefully, I start to cross it. There’s the faintest of stirrings to my right. It’s my only warning before a body crashes into me at full speed.

I go sprawling. By sheer luck, I manage to twist so that I land halfway out of the river and halfway into the tunnel I’d been aiming for, managing to keep the transmitter dry once again.

“Who’s that?” demands a voice. A female voice. A commanding and lightly accented female voice, which almost certainly belongs to a cop. That’s why I didn’t see any of them in the city above—they must have suspected Elliott escaped through a storm drain and went down themselves to search for him.

“No one of consequence,” I reply in my most charming tone, stalling for time while I frantically search for ideas. I reach out with my left hand, looking for a rock or debris or anything that I can use as a projectile or distraction. By sheer luck, my fingers close on what feels like a broken chunk of concrete.

Splash. The woman steps closer. The dim red light glints off her badge. The name tag next to it reads DIAZ. She was at the boardwalk with Ginger, I remember, on the team that apprehended me. Which means I’m screwed.

She comes to the same conclusion. “Hands up,” she snaps, lifting her gun.

My palm is starting to ache. I shift my grip on the chunk of concrete, then realize it aches not because my grip was awkward but because there’s another wave of pain building up, about to incapacitate me at the worst possible moment.