The braided steel winch cable sang like an over-tightened guitar string.
Four inches of white spark-spray showered from the counter base as the steel mounting brackets tore through the linoleum flooring. The register’s wood-grain faceplate buckled inward with a sharp, wooden crack that sounded like a rifle shot inside the narrow room.
Julian Vance did not reach for his wire cutters.
Severing the power cable was an amateur clerk’s move. Cut the power cord, and the cash drawer solenoid dropped offline. Drop the solenoid offline, and Store Rule 02 classified the terminal as an abandoned till, forfeiting the entire shift covenant to the house.
He leaned his weight into the balls of his boots, keeping both rubber soles glued to the anti-fatigue mat. The negative twenty-four-volt direct-current barrier hummed through his socks, holding his ground connection against the buckling floor.
With his right hand, Julian thrust his eighteen-inch brass reaching tongs across the three-foot gap toward the corner of Aisle 1.
The brass jaws of the tongs parted.
Hanging from the bottom wire loop of the toiletries spinner rack was the circular, stainless-steel cosmetic mirror.
