Fifteen feet away, a head hops out of a doorway, then a gun. A guard rattles off a few wild shots. I duck. Plaster sprays into my already streaming eyes, patters against my face. Clay stands stock-still, raises his gun and fires. His bullet buries itself into the guard’s shoulder. He disappears, screaming.

“Go!” he says, squinting through the smoke that seers his eyes like acid. He fires again, the bullet pings off something metallic in the distance. “Go, Riley!”

“Not without you!”

He opens his mouth to protest, but a bullet zings between our two heads, hitting a light fixture that rains sparks on our heads.

A guard pops up ten yards away behind a metal bench. My finger draws back the trigger and my gun explodes, rocking my shoulder back. The bullet cuts through the smoke and hits the guard’s vest. The guard staggers back, his mouth open. When he realizes he isn’t dead, he smiles tauntingly. He lifts his gun to finish me. There’s a crack beside me. The guard’s neck springs a leak. His gun clatters to the tile. Blood patters the wall as the guard topples over the bench and sprawls on the floor.

I squint through the haze toward the wall of guards. Our victories are a drop of water in the ocean. The guards keep coming.

I shoot a look down the hallway. Betsy and Ethan round the corner and disappear. Thank God for that, I think. Time to go.

A gun cracks. A cry of pain pulls me out of my thoughts. I look over. Clay’s hand is tucked to his chest. The palm is such a bloody, shredded mess, I can’t tell what’s happened. His revolver clatters to the floor. I reach for him, but the guards smell their victory. Bullets fill the air like lead rain.

“Come on!” I scream, dragging him away. “Run!”

He turns and stumbles along side me. Bullets zip past, slicing through the smoke, spraying plaster and shards of light casings on our heads. Something punches into my calf. I stumble, but Clay’s good hand on my arm steadies me. Then a bullet smashes into his shoulder and he goes down on the tile.

“Clay!” I scramble over to him and drag him forward. He’s drenched in blood. One pant leg clings to him in a red sopping mess. His white t-shirt is soaked through from his shredded hand. He stares up at me, his eyelids fluttering.

“Go,” he croaks.

I slip my arms under his and drag him backward along the tile. His boots leave two red tracks on the floor. Ahead the pounding of footsteps sounds like a giant crushing wave. We’re about to drown.