Julian’s fingertips clamped around the textured plastic edges of Cart Number Four.
He did not pull slow. He yanked the grey Fidelipac cartridge out of the spring-steel retention clips with a sharp snap.
Behind him, the Nixie tubes flickered with blinding red gas-discharge light.
09.1... 09.2... 09.3 SECONDS.
Seven-tenths of a second remained on the clock.
Seven-tenths of a second before the Emergency Maritime Salvage clause locked onto the antenna mast. That clause would surrender fifty thousand watts of microwave power to the Red-Ink Notary.
Julian vaulted over the leather studio swivel chairs. His rubber clogs hit the linoleum, skidding three inches on the waxed floor before his knee slammed hard against the lower mahogany console pedestal.
He did not care about the pain.
