Northgate Delivery

At nine-fifteen precisely, Number Sixty-Four rolled through the high iron gates of the Northgate Arsenal.

The sentries at the gate barely had time to shoulder their rifles before Wallace brought the machine to a halt outside the red-brick headquarters of the Ordnance Board.

He pulled the hand brake back with a sharp, iron clack, killed the magneto switch, and sat back against the cushions.

The silence that followed was broken only by the soft, steady ticking of the cooling exhaust manifold and the heavy breathing of Captain Thorne.

An elderly general in an unbuttoned tunic stood on the portico steps, flanked by three clerks holding quill pens. He checked a large gold chronometer in his palm, scowling toward the empty road beyond the gates.

"Thorne?" the general barked, squinting through his spectacles. "Where the devil are the dispatch riders? The telegraph said they left Highgate at eight-twenty!"