Marcus Cole saw the matte-black flank of Van N-3 in his right convex mirror before Julian shouted.
The shadow had emerged from the blind spot behind the expressway bridge piers without a single flicker of warning. It had no running lights, no marker lamps, and no reflective decals. It ran with the terrifying silence of an industrial machine whose engine was muffled by acoustic insulation.
The heavy step-van surged forward on the wet highway asphalt. It pulled alongside the passenger side of Coach #404, matching their forty-five-mile-an-hour speed with mechanical precision while its tires threw twin sheets of dirty road spray against the bus’s side sashes.
Mac’s right hand stayed welded to the steering wheel at ten o’clock. His left prosthetic arm pressed flat against the red lever of the Bendix air-brake valve.
Rule 9 kept him locked in place. The driver could not lift his hands. The driver could not turn his head past the yellow standee line while the wheels were turning.
If his eyes crossed that line, the municipal charter broke. A broken charter turned the bus into dead iron on the highway.
“Hold onto something solid!” Mac roared down the center aisle.
Ahead of them, the river causeway gave way to the elevated lanes of the Mill District 9 Expressway. The roadway rose thirty feet above the abandoned chemical plants and rusted rail switching yards of Sector 4. High-pressure sodium streetlights cast sickly orange halos through the freezing drizzle, illuminating the slick, oily sheen on the…
