The heavy iron door of Service Stairwell B opened with a low, hydraulic groan.
Julian reached into his pocket and placed the first triangular rubber wedge beneath the iron door. He drove the heel of his boot against the rubber, locking the door firmly three inches above the threshold.
“Door one wedged,” Julian said.
He glanced down at the twin bronze conductors trailing behind his boots.
The neoprene-insulated drop-wire slid smoothly over the rubber wedge. It ran across the service corridor floor, passed the mahogany desk partition, and vanished into the illuminated switchboard alcove where Clara and Lin Mei stood guard.
Beside him, Elena held her penlight in her left hand and kept her trauma shears loose in her right pocket.
“The air in this stairwell is five degrees colder than the lobby,” Elena observed, her breath puffing in faint white vapor.
“The concrete walls are below sea level at the base,” Julian said. “The harbor tide pushes cold salt water through the masonry joints.”
