The red digits pulsed on the black glass above the windshield.
[02:14 — REAR DOOR INSPECTION IN 19 MINUTES]
The numbers faded every three seconds, then snapped back with a low hum. Outside, the fog over the Marrow River pressed against the safety glass like wet wool.
Julian Vance set the brass whistle on the wheel-well tray.
The metal made a dull thud against the rubber matting. River silt clung to the sound-cleft, dried into gray crust. Drops of rusty water still wept from the split peas inside the acoustic chamber.
“Nineteen minutes,” Mac Cole said from the driver’s seat.
His knuckles stayed white against the steering wheel at ten o’clock. His left prosthetic arm remained clamped to the Bendix air-brake lever, holding forty pounds of continuous pressure.
“That’s nineteen minutes until Silas Vane steps onto my bottom stair-tread,” Mac added. “He hasn’t missed an inspection since October of ’96.”
