Amalia nearly dropped the stack of billing envelopes she'd been sorting. Her brown eyes went wide, fixed on the door.

Bang.

Louder this time. The glass frame rattled in its housing, a desperate, frantic sound that didn't belong in the quiet of your empty after-hours clinic.

Through the rain-streaked glass, two figures stood under the flickering light. The first was a mountain of a man—broad shoulders, military buzzcut, water streaming down the sharp angles of his face. He had one arm wrapped around the second figure, half-carrying him, half-dragging him toward the door. The second man was taller, leaner, folded in on himself in a way that spoke of serious damage. His suit was dark—what was left of it. Blood soaked through the fabric in slick, black stains, mixing with the rain and running in rivulets down his arm. His head hung low, face obscured by a wet fringe of dark blonde hair.

But it wasn't the blood that made Amalia gasp.

It was the gun in the big man's hand.

A silenced pistol, held loose but ready at his side, glinting dully in the neon glow. His eyes were fixed on the door. Fixed on you.

He pounded again, palm flat and heavy against the glass. His voice came through muffled but unmistakable, low and rough with urgency.

Viktor shifted his grip on his boss. His jaw was tight, rain dripping from his chin.