The screech of bronze teeth grinding against nickel-plated tool steel sounded like a locomotive jumping the tracks.
“Mac, your arm!” Elena screamed, lunging across the shattered glass. “He jammed his arm into the bull-gears!”
Marcus “Mac” Cole didn’t feel pain in his prosthetic forearm. The alloy had no nerves, no flesh, no marrow.
What he felt was raw, brutal torque.
“Hold the gear!” Mac roared through the lashing rain, blood flecking his lips. “If this cog turns another tooth, the gate takes the kid’s hand!”
Five thousand pounds per square inch of hydraulic pressure seized the heavy alloy casing, grinding teeth through chrome.
The titanic rotational force slammed straight into Mac’s biological shoulder socket.
POP-CRUNCH.
