Across the lot, a black sedan with tinted windows pulled into the visitor area near the main gate. No company plates, no logo.
A woman stepped out, wrapped in a long black coat, a charcoal scarf pulled up against the wind.
She paused beside the car, one hand resting on the roof, as though she had forgotten where she was going.
Then she took two steps toward the gate and stumbled.
Caleb saw it. So did everyone else.
Three mechanics on their smoke break watched her catch herself against a light pole. A security guard in the booth glanced up from his phone.
The woman's knees buckled, and she slid down the pole onto the frozen concrete.
Nobody moved.
It was the kind of pause that happens when every person in a crowd waits for someone else to decide.
Caleb set down his torque wrench and crossed the lot. Walking fast, then jogging.
He dropped to one knee beside her and turned her gently onto her side.
Her skin was pale and damp despite the cold. Her breathing was shallow and uneven.
"Ma'am? Ma'am, can you hear me?"
Her eyelids fluttered.
He pressed two fingers against her neck and counted. Too fast. Then, within a few seconds, suddenly too slow.
He tilted the flashlight toward her face and saw that her pupils were tiny pinpoints, and her lips carried a faint blue tint. There was a strange, sharp chemical smell on her breath.
This wasn't a fainting spell. This wasn't low blood sugar or the cold.
He pulled out his phone and dialed 911 with his thumb, while he kept her airway clear with his other hand.
"I need an ambulance at Harland Field. Ashford Aeronautics, main gate. Female, late 30s, unresponsive, breathing shallow, erratic pulse. I think she's had a reaction to something. A drug or a chemical. Please hurry."
That was when the voice cracked across the lot like a whip.
"Mercer!"
Dorian Voss came striding out of the operations building in a pressed navy overcoat.
He was the director of operations. 48 years old, sharp-jawed, with a way of standing too close to people when he spoke.
"What the hell are you doing? You're on the clock. You left a live unit unattended on my flight line."
"She's not breathing right," Caleb said, without looking up.
"Security handles the gate. That's not your job. Get back to your station. Now."
Caleb kept his hand steady on the woman's shoulder, telling her softly to stay with him.
Dorian stepped closer, his polished shoes inches from her hair.
"I'm going to say this once," Dorian said. "Walk away right now, or don't bother coming back."
Caleb looked up at him for the first time.