Marcus “Mac” Cole hated flying.
A bus driver belongs on solid asphalt with six heavy tires gripping the road, not rocketing backward toward an upside-down marble ceiling fifty feet in the air.
The air rushed past Mac’s ears with a thunderous roar.
The brass catwalk was falling away below their boots. Or rather, the catwalk stayed put while Mac and the crew tumbled upward like loose freight dumped out of a cargo van on an icy hill.
One point eight seconds.
That was all the transit math Mac had before their skulls smashed into the ceiling tiles.
“Brace for impact!” Mac bellowed into the updraft, his gravelly voice cutting through the wind like a diesel horn.
Directly above them--hanging upside-down like an iron birdcage suspended from the marble vault--was the Prisoner’s Dock.
