The melted slug of brass was cold and heavy in Julian Vance’s palm.
He turned the blackened metal over under the flickering fluorescent light. The chemical thermite burn had fused the copper alloy into an unrecognizable lump of charcoal-gray slag. Evelyn Cross’s initials, carved into the upper rim with a diamond scribe, caught the jittery red glow of the revolving quarantine beacons.
“Forty-two inches,” Elena said, her voice dropping into the quiet cadence she reserved for patients slipping into ventricular fibrillation. “Julian, look at the gate.”
Behind them, the hydraulic rams of the Bio-Quarantine Blast Gate hissed with steady, merciless pressure.
The massive steel slab was now level with Elena’s chest. The yellow-and-black hazard teeth hung forty inches above the concrete sill. Beyond the shrinking gap, the river fog drifted across the loading dock in pale white ribbons, carrying the sharp scent of damp salt and raw diesel exhaust.
Out on the dock, Marcus Cole was on his knees, his face red with exertion as he shouted through the gap: “The frame is flexing, kids! You’ve got less than ninety seconds before Clara’s ventilator won’t fit under the teeth! Move your asses!”
“You’re out of time, Vance!” Enforcer Ward shouted, stepping closer down the linoleum with the heavy fire axe resting on his shoulder. “Director Cross destroyed every valid admissions seal on this floor before she took the roof lift.”
