Logan dragged the unconscious receptionist into a nearby utility closet and propped her against the wall.
He checked her pulse, making sure it remained steady. She'd wake up with a pounding headache and a story no one would believe.
Then he was moving again, slipping through the darkened corridor like smoke, his black attire dissolving into the shadows with unnerving ease.
Suddenly, he stopped.
Two more guards rounded the corner ahead, their flashlights slicing through the gloom in sharp white beams. Logan flattened himself against the wall, breath controlled.
Instead of engaging directly, his gaze flicked upward toward the ceiling fixture above them. With a subtle twist of spatial telekinesis, he tore a metal panel loose.
It crashed loudly behind the guards.
Both men spun toward the sound.
Logan was already in motion.
One silent step. Then another.
