The dashboard clock inside Mac’s armored van clicked forward to ten forty-two.
Eighteen minutes remained before the eleven o’clock bell reset Oakhaven’s forty-four-night recursive exam loop.
Julian Vance pushed the passenger door open.
Cold autumn air rushed into the cab, carrying the sharp, sweet bite of mimeograph methanol and wet flagstone. Julian stepped down onto the rain-slick sidewalk, his heavy boots splashing into a shallow puddle of purple-tinted water.
Elena Rostova stepped out behind him, pulling the collar of her wool coat tight against the wind.
Across the street, parked deep in the shadow of the rusted Route Four bus shelter, Mac Cole lowered the driver’s side window two inches. His steel prosthetic forearm rested on the frame, tapping a steady cadence against the steel door.
TAP. TAP. TAP.
“Radio line is locked,” Mac called out in a low gravelly rasp. “I’ve got the perimeter covered and a direct patch to Devon and Arthur at Store Four. Bring her voice out before dawn, kid.”
