Julian Vance slid the heavy blue mesh gate shut, dropping the brass padlock into place.
The lock clicked with a clean, solid snap that echoed down the narrow alcove.
Above the latch hung a stamped metal sign painted in faded blue lacquer: CLOSED FOR MICROFILMING.
“Is the barrier legally binding?” Mac asked, setting his four-foot pry-bar against an olive-drab cabinet.
“Under Kardex Filing Rule zero-four-dash-E, it is completely binding,” Julian replied, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Filing alcoves marked for microfilming are exempt from security sweeps for three hundred seconds.”
“Five minutes of peace,” Elena sighed, setting her medical trauma kit down on a steel sorting desk. “Let’s make every second count.”
Clara sank onto a low metal step-stool near the rear wall, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
Her right sneaker heel was sliced clean through, exposing the frayed inner foam and bloody cotton sock.
