Silas drew in a sharp, jagged lungful of lobby air, his cracked lips pressing hard against the cold iron mouthpiece of the whistle.
His fingers were white-knuckled around the jagged metal barrel.
Inside the Proctor’s Booth, Julian Vance did not reach for a weapon. He did not duck behind the oak counter. He did not flinch.
Instead, Julian raised his right hand and tapped the polished surface of the 1964 Naval Brass Curfew Plaque bolted to the wall beside the Dutch door.
CLINK. CLINK.
The sound of his brass calipers against the ancient naval plaque was clean, sharp, and authoritative.
“Go ahead and blow it, Silas,” Julian said.
His voice was entirely calm, carrying the flat, patient tone of a veteran retail manager pointing to the store return policy printed in bold letters on the cash register counter.
