Julian Vance did not look up at the swaying two-ton racks.
He kept his boots planted firmly on the cold frosted glass, his right ear ringing at four thousand two hundred hertz.
Above their heads, four hundred pounds of lead-weighted steel drawers groaned against their mounting pins.
“Five seconds remaining on the primary drop timer!” Lin Mei shouted, shielding her face with her typewriter case. “The overhead cables are beginning to unravel!”
“Four seconds!” Clara cried, pressing her back against Elena’s shoulder.
“Julian, do something right now!” Mac bellowed, his pry-bar shaking with tension. “We don’t have a Z surname in this party!”
“We don’t need a family name from the phone book,” Julian said, his retail deadpan cutting through the ear-splitting shriek of tearing metal.
He aimed his pocket halogen light directly at the cast-brass index plate mounted on the cabinet frame.
