The thirteen-second silence dropped from the apron like shattered glass.
A heavy clink echoed inside the exterior coin-return cup of Coach #404. The glass mortar canister rested safely on the brass lip. It had not cracked. The boiling crimson clause-ink remained sealed behind rubberized gaskets.
Mac Cole lowered his prosthetic left arm. His steel punch-jaws held the outer rim firm. “Fare-cup caught the slug, Julian. No breach on the yellow line.”
“Step back from the vestibule,” Julian Vance said. “Keep the front door latched.”
Julian held his ground behind the fare-box pedestal. The air still carried the sharp tang of ozone and scorched copper. His right ear hummed at four thousand two hundred hertz. The baseline pitch held flat and clear.
Across the oil-slick concrete of Track 00, four syndicate gunners lowered their empty pneumatic launchers. They stood thirty feet away under the yellow sodium floodlights of Bay 9.
Between them stood Corbus Vane.
The Chief Transit Notary wore a tailored charcoal wool coat with red calfskin lapels. Gold-rimmed acoustic earmuffs clamped tight over his ears. A heavy five-pound brass notary seal hung from his leather shoulder strap. His thin lips curved into an ugly grin.
