Elena Rostova jerked her chin back, her boots scraping the inverted cast-iron step.
Inside the twelve-inch polycarbonate tube, the pale, rolled face slid downward through the baffle ring with a wet, rubbery slurp. It vanished into the darkness of the lower concourse, swept away by the roaring negative pressure.
“Did you see that?” Elena asked, her voice tight and rapid. She grabbed Julian’s sleeve.
“Julian, that face in the tube. It mouthed your father’s name.”
Julian stared down the clear spiral pipe. His grey eyes were completely flat, his jaw clamped shut like an iron vise.
Beside them, Thomas Vance stood on the diamond-plate tread, his yellow rubber slicker dripping condensation. He looked down at his own gloved hands, his broad chest rising and falling in silence.
“They’re sorting raw inventory,” Julian said quietly. “Dad’s original account was opened here thirty years ago. The facility never stopped processing his balance.”
“That wasn’t paper,” Elena said, her nurse’s fingers checking her own cold pulse. “That was live epidermis.”
