When Whistleblower Producer Dr. Elena Navarro Is Pushed Into a Cobra Pit over a $20 Million Celebrity Insurance Scam, Her Trait-Trained Venom Extraction Saves Her Betraying Business Partner, Trigge...
A searing pain ripped through Julian’s forearm. He stumbled back, his eyes wide, fixed on the king cobra still coiled, its hood slightly flared.
The snake had bypassed me completely. My specialized bio-serum pheromones had done their job, masking my body heat, making me invisible to the venomous reptile.
Julian dropped the pistol he held, clutching his arm with a guttural cry.
“You idiot,” I said, my voice flat, betraying nothing of the tremor running through me.
The cobra retreated, slithering back into the safety of its designated rock crevice. Its work was done.
Julian’s face was already blanching, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead despite the cool air of the sanctuary vault. He crumpled to the concrete floor, groaning, his breath coming in shallow gasps.
The bite mark on his forearm was stark, two pinpricks already purpling around the edges. Time was critical.
I moved with practiced efficiency, ignoring Julian’s ragged moans. My eyes scanned the vault, locating the emergency kit I’d insisted on placing there months ago. It was a metal box, bright red, mounted by the main door.
“Don’t you dare look away,” Julian choked out, his voice thin.
I ignored him, retrieving the kit. Inside, nestled amongst sterile wipes and bandages, was my bio-serum extraction syringe. It was specially designed for quick, precise venom removal from an active bite site.
My hands were steady as I snapped on a pair of latex gloves. The air in the vault, usually filled with the gentle hum of environmental controls, now felt heavy, suffocating. Julian’s labored breathing filled the silence.
“You need to stay absolutely still,” I instructed, my voice calm, almost detached. My training kicked in, pushing everything else aside.
Julian just trembled, pressing his uninjured hand against his mouth. His expensive watch glinted dully on his wrist.
The cobra’s enclosure gate stood slightly ajar. I knew it wasn’t secure. The danger wasn’t truly over. But the immediate threat was on the floor, convulsing.
I gripped the syringe, its needle glinting under the harsh overhead light.
“It will hurt,” I told him. “More than the bite.”
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