The heavy iron paddle of the turnstile groaned as Julian pushed through.
His right boot came down hard on the diamond-plate surface of the van’s folded tailgate. The steel groaned beneath his weight, but the heavy anchor chains held fast to the gate pillars.
He hadn’t touched a single inch of municipal sidewalk concrete. He was standing on the auxiliary loading dock of Dormitory Building #7, legally shielded by the 1964 charter.
“Kill him!” Vance-Krebs shrieked, his face twisting into a mask of pure fury.
“Burn the uniform off his back!”
Vance-Krebs lunged forward, both hands gripped around his three-foot branding wand. The glowing brass head sliced through the freezing river mist, trailing a thick ribbon of oily red smoke. On his flanks, the two press-guards charged in tandem, their six-hundred-degree stamping plates aimed straight at Julian’s knees and ribs.
Julian didn’t retreat. He didn’t flinch.
In retail, when three angry shoplifters cornered a clerk at the service desk, backing up meant getting trapped against the cigarette rack. You stood your ground, controlled the counter, and used company policy as a shield.
