Costa's POV
Victor f*****g Winters. Back from the dead, bloody as hell, standing in the stairwell like some kind of ghost. The gun in my hand jerked up on instinct.
"Don't shoot," he rasped, lowering his weapon. "We don't have time for that shit."
Michael stared at his brother like he'd seen, well, a ghost. "Victor?"
"In the flesh." Victor's eyes flicked to me, then to his brother, then to Tiara slumped against the wall. "She's going under, isn't she?"
"How the hell did you—" I started.
"Questions later," Victor cut me off. "Guards coming up from Sublevel Four. We've got maybe two minutes."
My shoulder throbbed where a bullet had grazed me earlier. Blood soaked my shirt, sticky and warm. Nothing I couldn't handle, but a constant reminder that we were running out of time—in more ways
