The parking garage was a concrete labyrinth, its dim corners swallowing sound and light. Lena Hart led the way, her boots silent on the cracked floor, her senses razor-sharp. Max followed close behind, the stolen ledger tucked inside his jacket, his knife still in hand. Riley Kane, the filmmaker, moved with surprising stealth, her camera now stowed, her eyes scanning the shadows. Daniel Carter, the journalist, brought up the rear, his breath uneven, his phone clutched like a lifeline. The roar of engines and the shouts of Marcus Tate's men echoed from the entrance, growing closer. Lena's heart pounded, but her mind was clear. They needed to get out, and fast.
“Stairs," Lena whispered, pointing to a rusted door in the corner. “Leads to the street. We split up there, lose them in the crowds
