The sparks cascading from the overhead electrical box were the last light I saw before the service tunnel was swallowed by an ancient, suffocating darkness. Rosw’s command— “Run toward the water” —echoed in my mind, a frantic, screaming melody. I felt his hand slip from my waist, a tactile anchor gone. I heard the scuffle of heavy boots on stone, the grunt of impacted breath, and then a silenced pistol cough— pop-pop —answered by the roaring, unsuppressed bursts of submachine guns.
The muzzle flashes were strobe lights from hell, illuminating jagged fragments of the tunnel. Rosw was a shadow among shadows, moving with a fluid, terrifying grace, using the broken equipment as a shield while his weapon spoke. Julian and his men were a wall of orange fire, their bullets chewing up the stone w
