Marcus “Mac” Cole loved the sound of heavy diesel, but he hated the sound of filing cabinets.
Especially when those cabinets weighed two tons each and shot out of the walls like iron battering rams.
[SHOVE-SLIDE-SLAM!]
Down the narrow canyon of Aisle forty-four, forty-drawer steel towers groaned under immense pneumatic pressure.
Drawers loaded with two hundred pounds of lead-weighted microfiche cartridges blasted outward at chest height.
They locked into a jagged, zig-zagging iron gauntlet that cut off the route to the central freight hoist.
“Keep your heads down and watch the rails!” Mac barked, raising his four-foot steel pry-bar across his chest.
He clicked the ticket-punch jaw on his prosthetic left forearm twice: [snick-snick].
