Gravity was a butcher, and the concrete floor was its cleaver.
Jane hit the bottom of the metal chute with a bone-jarring c***k. Her left shoulder slammed into the lip of a canvas laundry cart, the impact loud enough to echo in the dark. She tumbled over the edge, collapsing onto the freezing cement.
She lay there, gasping. Dust coated her tongue. The subterranean air smelled of heavy exhaust, damp earth, and ozone.
Above her, echoing down the metal throat of the shaft, the gunfire had stopped.
It was replaced by screaming.
Wet, tearing sounds. The heavy, sickening thud of bodies being thrown against reinforced glass.
Old Jane would have retreated. She would have slipped into the quiet, white room in her mind, gone perfectly blank, checked her pulse, and waited for the men with the g
