Arjun's face turned to stone. He slammed his hand onto the joystick of his wheelchair.
"Get me to the underground server room. Now," Arjun ordered Arthur.
He spun the chair around, completely ignoring Catherine, and sped out of the greenhouse.
Catherine watched them leave. A satisfied smirk touched her lips. Silas had done his job perfectly. The network was distracted.
She walked quickly back to her room. She stripped off the ugly skirt and pulled on a pair of black tactical pants, a black hoodie, and a dark baseball cap. She strapped a medical-grade folding knife to her ankle.
She slipped out the service elevator, avoiding the main lobby cameras, and stepped out into the chaotic streets of Manhattan.
She blended into the dense crowd walking down Fifth Avenue, heading toward the subway to Brooklyn.
Suddenly, a woman screamed.
Catherine stopped. Ten yards ahead, outside a luxury café, a crowd was forming in a circle.
She pushed through the wall of bodies.
An elderly man in a bespoke tweed suit was thrashing on the concrete pavement. His face was turning a deep, horrifying shade of purple. His hands clawed desperately at his own throat.
A burly man in a chauffeur's uniform knelt beside him, screaming into a cell phone. "911! He's not breathing! He's choking!"
Catherine's eyes scanned the old man's swollen neck and the lack of chest movement. It wasn't a heart attack. It was acute epiglottitis. His airway was completely sealed shut.
He had less than two minutes before brain death.
Catherine dropped to her knees. She shoved the chauffeur hard in the chest. "Move!"
"Get off him!" the driver yelled, grabbing her shoulder.
Catherine shot him a glare so lethal it froze the man in place. "He is dying. Hold his head still."
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a cheap plastic ballpoint pen. She bit the end off and spat the ink cartridge onto the street, leaving a hollow plastic tube.
She drew the folding knife from her ankle. With her free hand, she cleanly tore open an alcohol wipe she kept in a sealed pouch, ensuring her fingers never touched the sterile pad itself as she meticulously disinfected the blade.
The crowd gasped. Someone yelled, "She has a knife! Call the cops!"
Catherine quickly pulled her dark hoodie up, letting the thick fabric drape over the sides of her face, effectively shielding her profile from the lenses. Cell phone cameras went up everywhere. She kept her back angled toward the largest cluster of onlookers, ensuring her features remained in deep shadow.
Catherine ignored the noise. She found the cricothyroid membrane on the old man's neck with her thumb.
She pressed the blade down and made a precise, half-inch horizontal slash.
Blood welled up instantly. She shoved the hollow pen tube directly into the bleeding hole in his trachea.
A sharp, hissing sound cut through the panic. Air rushed through the tube into the old man's lungs.
His chest heaved. The purple color began to drain from his face, replaced by the flush of oxygenated blood. He coughed violently, his eyes fluttering open.
The crowd erupted into applause. The chauffeur fell back, crying in relief.
The wail of ambulance sirens pierced the air, growing louder.
Catherine knew the police would lock down the scene and demand ID. She yanked her cap down low over her eyes.
She stood up, wiped the blood off her knife on her pants, and melted backward into the cheering crowd.
By the time the paramedics rushed in, the girl in the black cap was gone.
Catherine navigated the labyrinth of alleyways, making sure she had no tail. She arrived at a rusted iron door behind an abandoned warehouse in Brooklyn.
She knocked three times, paused, then twice. A peephole slid open.
The door unlocked. Catherine stepped into the heavy smell of oil paint and ozone.
Silas sat in front of a wall of glowing monitors. He spun around in his chair, grinning wildly.
"I'm in," Silas said. "I cracked the Hughes medical vault."
