The smoke tasted of baked lacquer and old phenolic resin. It hung two feet below the ductwork in the service corridor, drifting in greasy gray ribands toward the ventilation grates.
At the bend forty yards out, boots struck wet floor tiles.
“Hold the locker line!” Gideon called. His voice had the flat, ragged edge of a man shouting through gauze. His right arm was strapped across his chest in a sling improvised from a canvas equipment strap, the collarbone bruised violet beneath his shirt; in his left hand he held an iron conduit rod he had pried off the conduit rack ten minutes earlier. Beside him stood two surrendered compound maintenance men—Vance, whose overalls smelled of grease and transformer fluid, and a younger technician named Mercer who was no relation to June—braced against the pair of heavy metal supply lockers they had tipped across the hallway.
A gunshot cracked against the firebrick wall. The ricochet threw plaster chips across Gideon’s shoulder. Vance flinched, but he kept his boots jammed against the bottom rim of the locker frame.
“They’ve got three carbines,” Vance called back toward the alcove. “Security reserve squad. They aren’t trying to take captives, Mara. Silas told them the ring goes dark if they lose this junction.”
