The double closed the four paces of wet stonework in the space of half a breath out.
It didn’t sprint with the flailing, lunging violence of an angry man. A living runner leans forward into his stride, throws his arms wide to balance the torque of his pelvis, and drives his boot heels into the flags with bone-shaking, bone-jarring impacts that pop mortar and throw up spray.
The double glided across the shale.
Its feet moved in a low, nonstop, zero-drag shuffle that never rose more than an inch above the unmortared slate. Burdenless Step absorbed every ounce of lateral heavy rush. That kept its balance point anchored perfectly between its hips, its shoulders level. Its eyes were locked onto the notch of Len’s collar with the cold, unblinking fixation of an iron sights-ring. It didn’t make a sound louder than a silk scarf sliding across grease.
Len didn’t wait for the strike to arrive.
He had spent four years dodging the kicks of scared mules on narrow ledges. He knew that a man who tries to block an incoming crash with his own mass merely absorbs the striking force of the blow.
He pivoted on the ball of his right foot, engaging Surefoot to lock his ankle tendons against the greasy stone. Then he threw his weight sideways into the deep, shadowed recess of the first check nook. The nook was a shallow stonework niche two feet deep, built sixty years ago to house an emergency high-pressure bypass valve…
