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The basement holds old junk and broken crap. Stairs go up to where they've got Sarah.

"Office area, back corner," Eamon says, looking at his phone.

We head up the stairs. Voices carry down—three guys, maybe four.

"—girl doesn't know shit."

"Boss wants us to keep trying."

"She's not talking because she can't. Wrong fucking girl."

They figured it out. Sarah's running out of time.

I call Jackson. "Go."

Gunshots explode outside. Jackson's boys hit the front door. The guys inside start yelling, running toward the noise.

We move fast. Two idiots sprint past us, leaving the office alone.

Sarah sits tied to a chair behind glass walls. One guy guards her, gun ready. Her face shows bruises and dried blood. But she's breathing.

"I take him," I tell Orla.

She nods.

I kick the door open. The guard spins around, raising his gun. I put two in his chest before he can shoot. He drops.

Sarah looks up. "Cillian?"

"We're getting you out." I cut the ropes. "Can you stand?"

"I think so." Her legs shake. "They kept asking about boats and routes. I told them I don't know anything."

"Good girl."

Eamon shows up. "More coming. Back door's blown."

Three guys with guns walk toward us. Jackson's distraction didn't work on everyone.

"Window," Orla says.

I boost Sarah up first, then Orla. As I climb out, bullets shatter the glass behind me. We hit the fire escape, Sarah stumbling.

"Got her," Eamon says, catching Sarah.

The metal stairs shake under us. Below, our cars wait with engines running.

"Move your asses," Jackson yells.

Sarah's legs give out. Eamon picks her up, carries her down while Orla and I watch for shooters.

Bullets hit the railings. The bastards made it to the window, firing down at us.

"Go," I push Orla toward the cars.

She reaches the first one as Eamon loads Sarah in back. I slide in next to them as Jackson floors it.

Tires scream. The warehouse gets smaller behind us. Orange flames show in the windows—Jackson's cleanup crew doing their job.