Something tightened around his throat from behind. Not enough to kill at once. Enough to drag. Enough to own the next second.

Then the ceiling opened.

A grate slammed down from above on one set of shoulders with a scream of old hinges and a burst of black water. A woman dropped with it out of the maintenance run overhead, hit the floor in a crouch, and drove both boots into the nearest attacker before the others had turned. She moved as if she had learned the tunnel by bruising herself on it for years. One short baton flashed in her hand. Another strike, quick and flat, took a wrist. The line at Elias's throat loosened.

"Down," she snapped.

He half turned toward her on instinct, because for one hopeful beat rescue and authority looked the same. The baton came across and clipped his ankle. She swept his remaining rod away, shoved him by the shoulder, and he hit the floor chest-first in cold runoff, breath crushed out of him.

By the time he got one forearm under himself, the ambushers were gone. Footsteps clanged overhead and then did not. The woman planted a knee between his shoulders and stripped the satchel from him with clean, practiced hands.

"If you reach," she said, not breathing hard at all, "I'll break the hand with the bandage first."