The rubber wheels of the wheelchair rolled across the warm concrete sill.
The sound of rushing Atlantic seawater vanished behind a two-ton pneumatic blast door.
KA-CHUNG.
The heavy steel dogs engaged with an airtight mechanical hiss.
Inside the vestibule of Station WHBR, the air smelled of dry ozone, warmed vacuum tubes, and clean transformer oil.
Clara Vance leaned back into the leather seat, letting out a long, trembling breath of sheer relief.
“You made it, Clara,” Elena whispered, kneeling immediately on the dry linoleum floor.
Elena stripped off her own soaked canvas jacket, tossing it into a corner beside the lockers.
