Twenty dollars in worn paper currency never looked like an instrument of execution until you saw the hands holding it.
Julian Vance stood frozen in the center aisle of Car #3, the rubber soles of his work boots gripping the wet, ribbed flooring. Overhead, the parallel rows of fluorescent tubes hummed at sixty cycles, casting a hard, unyielding white glare across the orange fiberglass seats.
Behind him, Elena Rostov reacted with pure survival instinct. She dropped into a low, defensive crouch in front of Clara’s wheeled gurney, her right hand whipping her carbon-steel surgical scalpel from her coat pocket, the honed edge catching the fluorescent light.
Beside her, Marcus “Mac” Cole’s steel prosthetic arm snapped forward with a sharp, mechanical snarl of ratcheting gears. His brass five-hole punch was locked between his steel fingers like a knuckle-duster, his broad chest squaring off to shield Lin Mei.
“Don’t move!” Mac roared, his voice bouncing off the stainless-steel bulkhead panels. “Hands where I can see them!
If you reach for that coin purse, I’ll take your arm off at the shoulder!”
Dr. Victor Corvo backed toward the emergency brake housing, his fingers hovering over the red pull-handle. His weathered face had drained of color, his jaw set in a hard, rigid line.
