Chapter 8

Lana exited the alley. A heavy paper bag of rare herbs was clutched tightly in her hand.

She chewed on a small, raw piece of Blood Lotus root the old proprietor had given her specifically to suppress her coughing. The bitter, metallic taste surged through her system. It temporarily stabilized her erratic heartbeat.

She walked onto the brightly lit, luxurious expanse of Fifth Avenue. She intended to hail another cab back to the estate.

Suddenly, a sleek, black Maybach pulled up abruptly to the curb twenty yards ahead of her.

An elderly man, Arthur Knight, stepped out of the car. He leaned heavily on a silver-tipped cane.

Arthur took two steps before freezing. His face turned an alarming shade of gray. He clutched his chest tightly.

He collapsed onto the pristine sidewalk. His cane clattered loudly against the concrete.

Slade Knight, a young, impeccably dressed CEO, rushed out of the other side of the Maybach. His face was pale with panic.

Slade dropped to his knees beside his grandfather. He screamed for his security detail to call 911.

Mitch Sullivan, a massive, muscle-bound executive protection agent, sprinted from the trailing SUV.

Mitch immediately assessed the situation. He reached down, preparing to scoop the old man up to rush him to the hospital.

Lana stopped walking. Her mystic vision instantly analyzed the chaotic biological energy radiating from Arthur's chest.

She saw a massive, dark blockage in the descending aorta. It was a rare, lethal aortic dissection, not a standard heart attack.

Lana stepped forward. Her voice sliced through the panic like a blade.

"If you lift him, the artery will rupture, and he will die in three seconds."

Slade snapped his head up. He glared at the masked girl in the hoodie. His protective instincts flared.

Mitch scoffed. He ignored the crazy teenager. He slid his thick arms under Arthur's shoulders.

Lana closed the distance with unnatural speed. Her hand clamped down on Mitch's massive forearm.

Mitch tried to yank his arm away. He found the girl's grip felt like an industrial hydraulic press.

Lana stared directly into Slade's eyes.

"The internal pressure is critical. Movement equals death," Lana stated coldly.

Slade hesitated. Something in the girl's absolute, terrifying certainty made his hyper-rational brain pause.

He ordered Mitch to stop and lay Arthur flat. He decided to wait the two minutes for the paramedics.

Mitch glared at Lana. He aggressively shooed her away.

"Back off before I arrest you for interference," Mitch growled.

Lana released Mitch's arm. She took a half-step back. She was entirely unbothered by the bodyguard's hostility.

She crossed her arms. She looked down at Arthur.

"Waiting for normal paramedics will also kill him," she muttered.

Sirens wailed in the distance. They rapidly approached the scene as a crowd of onlookers began to gather with their phones out.

A private, high-end medical response vehicle cut off the ambulance. It screeched to a halt next to the Maybach.

Dr. Alistair Finch, the city's most arrogant and expensive concierge cardiologist, stepped out with a trauma bag.

Slade breathed a sigh of massive relief. He recognized the top-tier expert his family paid millions to retain.

Dr. Finch barked orders at the crowd to clear the area. His demeanor radiated absolute, condescending authority.

He spotted Lana standing too close to the patient. He aggressively shoved her shoulder.

"Get out of my operating space, street rat," Finch spat.