By the time Don Vittorio Valducci's motorcade tore through the rain-slicked streets to the crash site, he had already made seven calls. The finest trauma surgeons on the Eastern Seaboard were being roused from their beds, summoned under threat of consequences none of them dared imagine. A private wing at St. Cecilia's had been cleared. Every corridor between the emergency bay and the operating theater was emptied of civilians, lined instead with Valducci soldiers in dark overcoats who stood with their hands folded and their eyes alert.
It was Felix who reached the wreckage first.