The heat radiating from the brass roller hit Julian Vance’s cheek like an open oven door.
Four hundred degrees Fahrenheit.
Julian leaned his torso two feet across the bare wood-grain transaction counter, his chest passing directly through the jagged aluminum frame of the shattered sneeze-guard.
His left work boot remained bolted to the ribbed rubber anti-fatigue mat behind Register 1. His right leg extended forward for balance, his knee brushing against the stainless-steel coin scoop.
Behind him at Station 8, Thomas Vance kept a white-knuckled grip on both sides of Julian’s leather utility belt. The veteran inspector leaned his entire two-hundred-pound frame backward on the mat to serve as an immovable human anchor.
Thomas could not speak through the featureless wet-paper skin sealing his face, so he rapped his heavy brass Badge #004 twice against Julian’s left hip in a slow, steady cadence.
Tap-tap.
Julian understood the rhythm without turning his head. *I have your weight, son.
