Julian’s blue-wrapped left shoulder slammed into the center seam of the double glass doors of Store #04.
He didn’t touch the Paste-Crew Leader standing on the rubber welcome mat. He kept his elbows tucked tight against his ribs, threading his body between the two black-coated couriers so not a single stitch of his coat brushed their municipal medallions.
The thick red animal glue tore down the middle with a wet, blistering rip.
Above the transom, the store’s dry-reed magnetic door chime clicked 0.4 seconds before the aluminum door leaf physically swung inward.
CLICK-DING.
That familiar 0.4-second early chime cut through the blaring megaphone and the district sirens like a starting pistol.
Home turf, Julian thought as the heavy glass door burst inward, trailing ribbons of steaming crimson poster paper and dry blue newsprint. Now I’m inside the perimeter.
His wet boots hit the scuffed yellow linoleum of the entrance mat.
