Eight seconds remained before Zero-Hour.
The digital clock on Register 1 was ticking down with concussive, irreversible finality.
02:13:52 AM
Outside on Old Ferry Road, the red fog swirled with freezing, predatory violence.
Thomas Vance was suspended in mid-air over the brass door sill. His boots were off the floor.
His center of gravity was broken. His yellow oilskin coat whipped in the freezing draft.
Across the flooded street, dozens of spectral bailiffs and tax appraisers lunged toward the doorway. Their paper hands reached out to drag him down into the gutter.
Mac Cole’s iron prosthetic fingers clamped onto the yellow slicker collar with fifty pounds of pneumatic grip.
