Julian’s left boot slipped on the wet iron ladder rung.
He caught himself against the cold vertical rail. A slick crust of black grease, coal soot, and harbor salt coated the metal.
Thirty feet below, black tidewater sloshed over the track bed of Subway Line Zero. Cold spray drifted up the narrow shaft and stung the back of his neck like ice needles.
He didn’t look down. Looking down didn’t pay eight-fifty an hour, and it didn’t help lift twenty-five pounds of folded hospital steel.
“Hold the crossbar,” Julian said, keeping his voice low so it cut through the roar of the water. “If the hand-rims spin, we lose our grip.”
Dr. Victor Corvo stood two rungs below him.
His gloved hands locked onto the lower frame of Clara’s collapsible St. Jude’s wheelchair, bracing the weight against his chest.
“Understood, Mr. Vance,” Corvo said.
