The split-ring of the titanium pin cut into the calloused pad of Mac’s index finger.
He didn’t pull yet.
A good machinist never trips a release catch until the load is balanced. If he pulled that pin right now, the tension in the stud-link chain would whip forty pounds of loose naval brass straight into his own chest and break his ribs like dry pine twigs.
Four inches from the glowing brass cylinder, the air was pure fire. The skin across Mac’s cheekbones felt tight, stretched thin like parchment over an anvil. His gray beard smelled of singed wool, and the sweat dripping from his nose hissed as it struck the sheet-metal intake apron.
“Mac, don’t move!” Julian yelled, crawling forward on his knees across the burning feed-bed.
Julian held the heavy brass Bostitch stapler clamped in his right hand. The blue corner of Store Credit Slip Number Zero-Zero stuck out from the baseplate, pinned behind the six signed sheets of the Ward Zero Decommissioning Writ.
Mac looked straight up into Julian’s soot-streaked face.
“Listen to me, Kid!” Mac shouted at the top of his voice.
