Page 220 of Caterina
A shape moves ahead near the utility enclosure.
I drop behind the hedge before he sees me.
One man, weapon lowered.
Working fast at the panel.
He is not cutting blindly. He knows what he is looking at. He has the housing open, wires exposed, a compact tool in one hand.
This one is not just muscle.
I need him alive if possible.
I move in silence along the hedge, staying below the window line. My side throbs with every step. He shifts once, and I freeze.
He goes back to the panel.
Careless.
I close the last few feet, rise behind him, and hook one arm across his throat before he feels me. He jerks hard, tool clattering against the casing. His elbow drives back toward my ribs.
This time, he hits the wound.
Pain detonates.
For one second, my grip almost loosens.
I drive my knee into the back of his and take him down, keeping pressure on his throat while his boots scrape against the gravel. He reaches for his weapon. I trap his wrist and twist until something gives.
He chokes against my arm.
“Who sent you?” I ask in his ear.
He tries to slam his head back into my face.
I move enough that he catches cheekbone instead of nose. Still, stars flash behind my eyes.
Fine. Questions later.
I tighten the hold until his body goes slack.
I zip-tie his wrists with his own restraints, strip him of weapons, radio, blade, backup pistol at the ankle. Then I drag him behind the enclosure and turn to the panel.
A mess, but not random.
He killed the backup feed and rigged the relay to keep it from cycling. It’s not destroyed beyond repair. Just disabled.
I reach in and start undoing his work with one hand while keeping my gun close with the other.
The first wire reconnects.
Nothing.
Second.
The emergency indicator flickers.
Third.
