The iron treads of the external fire escape vibrated beneath Julian’s boots as he descended toward the harbor apron.
The cold Atlantic night gale hit him in the chest, washing away the warm tube smell of Studio B. Sixteen hours had passed since the Wharfinger’s scale impounded the contraband toner drums at dawn, locking the pier under a daytime customs quarantine until the evening shift window.
Down on the granite quay, the black steel hull of Nautilus-04 rocked against the creosote pilings on the outer berth. Across the timber bollard on the inner berth, the red-hulled standby harbor tug Marrow-09 idled in the swell. High on the launch’s wheelhouse, the brass Kahlenberg foghorn dripped with salt spray, silent for now, but ready to sound.
Mac Cole, Dr. Corvo, Lin Mei, and Track-Walker Silas stood near the gangway brow under the shelter of an overhanging timber cargo canopy. Silas leaned on his five-pound brass coupler key and watched the flooded harbor apron. Beside him, Mac laid two olive-drab duffel bags across a wooden cable spool and rested his prosthetic left arm on the rim.
Julian stepped onto the wet granite apron, pulling the hood of his dark coat tight against his collar.
