CRACK-SCREEEEECH!
Twenty tons of 1924 cast-iron flywheel torque slammed against Mac’s prosthetic forearm like a runaway freight train hitting a granite wall.
The sound tore through the six-story pressroom. White-hot sparks erupted from the registration gearbox in a blinding, hissing geyser that rained molten brass across the diamond-plate deck. The heavy air was instantly choked with the smell of ozone, scorched copper, and vaporized grease.
Mac’s work boots skidded backward. The steel heels screeched against the wet deck plates, digging into a seam between two floor sections.
Veins bulged like thick cables against Mac’s neck, his jaw clenched so hard Julian could hear his teeth grinding over the shriek of the machinery.
Behind Mac, Dr. Victor Corvo and Elena Rostova held his upper shoulder brace with everything they had. Corvo’s leather soles slipped on the oil, so the coroner dug his heels against the base of the gantry ladder, his aristocratic face pale and taut.
“Bracing!” Corvo shouted, his voice hoarse.
“Deceleration force exceeding thirty-two hundred newtons! Clavicular alignment holding!”
