The black ink crawling up Elena Rostova’s forearm hissed against her skin like drops of boiling solder.
“Hold her arm flat!” Dr. Victor Corvo roared, his calm academic demeanor shattering into fierce emergency command. “Mac, pin the elbow!”
“Julian, keep your eyes on that register tray!”
Mac Cole moved instantly. His broad, calloused right hand clamped down on Elena’s upper arm, pinning her triceps against the wooden top of Station 3. His iron prosthetic left hand gripped the counter edge to brace his stance.
Elena’s teeth chattered violently. The skin of her left wrist was turning the color of wet river slate. The black branching dendrites of Executive Ink had already crossed her radial artery, creeping within two inches of the cubital fossa.
“Ten seconds,” Elena choked out, her vision tunneling as she fought the numbness. “If it crosses the joint... the cardiac conduction system freezes...”
Corvo did not waste a heartbeat.
He ripped open his vintage mahogany forensic kit. From the foam-lined interior, he snatched a brown glass bottle of ninety percent lab-grade isopropyl alcohol and an amber glass jar of pharmaceutical zinc oxide powder.
