Clara Vance dropped to both knees on the cold ceiling tiles and caught the rolling green thermos with both hands.
The hammertone enamel was freezing against her palms, slick with harbor condensation and grey zinc dust. Inside the double-walled stainless-steel vacuum chamber, the loose steel ball bearing was still hammering like a trapped finch against a windowpane.
Dit-dit-dit... dit-dah... dah-dah...
The metallic vibrations buzzed straight through her fingernails. To Clara, the cadence was a 4,200 Hz distress flare cutting through ten yards of river silt and naval brass.
“Bring it inside the wire cage,” Julian said quietly, glancing back toward Chief Inspector Halvorsen’s smoking turnstile booth. “If Halvorsen’s optical lenses reboot while we’re standing in the main concourse, he’ll log the thermos as loose floor litter.”
Marcus “Mac” Cole braced his broad shoulder against the heavy diamond-mesh door of Evidence Locker #04, holding the greased bronze hinges wide. His prosthetic left forearm clicked twice ([snick-snick]) as the internal leaf springs settled.
Thomas Vance stepped across the threshold first. Their father moved without a sound, his rain-darkened 1996 yellow rubber slicker sweeping the narrow aisle like a protective storm curtain.
Elena Rostova, Lin Mei, and Dr. Victor Corvo filed in right behind him, their work boots stepping over the inverted steel threshold.
