In twenty-eight years on the tracks, Marcus Cole had seen men freeze under fire, but he had never seen an entity take molten steel on its shoulders without blinking.
Back in Car #3, the thermite reaction had turned the center ceiling hatch into an open, roaring forge. White-hot droplets of liquid stainless steel showered down in sizzling sheets, illuminating the passenger compartment in stuttering bursts of chemical daylight. The air hung heavy with the suffocating stench of burning magnesium ribbon, vaporized asphalt insulation, and melting rubber.
Dr. Victor Corvo and Elena Rostov had already stripped the heavy, porcelain-enameled steel tray from the mobile autopsy instrument cart, wedging it over the chrome guardrails of Clara’s gurney. The heavy metal tray formed a sloped armored canopy, deflecting the falling slag with sharp, ringing pings that sent showers of sparks skittering across the rubber floor.
Elena kept one hand clamped onto Clara’s pulse monitor, her eyes darting between the girl’s pale, tranquil face and the dripping ceiling above. “Vitals are holding! Pulse is eighty!
Respiration twelve! But that tray won’t hold if the whole hatch collapses!”
The real shield was standing between the gurney and the shower of liquid fire.
The Customer Without a Face had risen from his fiberglass bench.
