America's No. 1 financial conglomerate

Chapter 637 Using a borrowed knife to kill

A private medical center at the intersection of Madison Avenue and 57th Street in Midtown Manhattan, New York, is currently surrounded by layers of security.

Outside the building, media organizations from across the United States and even the world have built a spectacular yet oppressive reporting barrier.

Reporting vans from CNN, Fox News, The New York Times, and The Wall Street Journal were parked side by side, their satellite signal receivers erected high, resembling a towering steel jungle.

Dozens of video cameras and SLR cameras were set up on makeshift tripods, their lenses all pointed at the clinic's only entrance and exit.

Reporters gripped their microphones tightly, speaking rapidly to the camera as they relayed the latest developments regarding Ernst's attack.

In the air, three helicopters hovered low, their fuselages bearing the logos of the three major public broadcasters: ABC, NBC, and CBS. The airflow from their propellers swirled up scraps of paper and dust from the ground, causing the reporters' windbreakers to flutter loudly.

NYPD officers formed a second line of defense in front of the clinic's main entrance.

Dozens of police officers in dark blue uniforms, equipped with riot shields and batons, stood in neat rows, with their sidearms and walkie-talkies on standby.

Several senior detectives paced back and forth with their hands behind their backs, their fingertips unconsciously tapping their thighs, their faces gloomy enough to drip water.

They now have to guard not only against possible secondary attacks, but also against all sorts of media reporters who want to take the opportunity to sneak in disguise.

"Damn it... this is Manhattan," a young officer muttered, his voice drowned out by the noise. "The place supposedly the safest in America, and now there's a shooting?"

Beside him, an elderly police officer with gray hair sighed and glanced at the media group not far away. "Since Lennon's assassination in 1980, there hasn't been a vicious incident like this here."

"Now look what's happened, the victim is still Ernst, that leader of America's younger generation."

"Can you imagine? If we can't even guarantee his safety, how low will the NYPD's credibility plummet? In the days to come, there will be congressional hearings, citizen protests, and media attacks... We're in for a tough time."

Manhattan, as the economic heart of New York and a global financial center, has always been a source of pride for the United States in terms of its level of security, and a window through which the United States showcases its order and prosperity to the world.

This shooting incident is tantamount to smashing a hole in this window.

This is not just a criminal case; it could trigger a series of chain reactions, including panic on Wall Street, capital flight, and a crisis of public trust in public safety.

Everyone knew that the peaceful days were over.

If even the safety of the wealthy cannot be guaranteed, is there any need for the NYPD to exist?

Inside the clinic, a tall bodyguard in a black suit stood every three meters along both sides of the corridor.

Their eyes were sharp, their hands hung naturally at their waists, the bulging outlines of their waists hinting at concealed weapons.

This is a direct satire of the NYPD, indicating that Ernst doesn't trust them and won't even allow them into the hospital building.

The VIP wards on the innermost part of the third floor are the area with the highest security level in the entire clinic.

The heavy solid wood door was tightly closed, and two Blackwater bodyguards stood outside, motionless like two guardian deities.

Inside the ward, soft, warm light streamed from the recessed ceiling lights, illuminating the white sheets and medical equipment. The air was filled with a faint smell of disinfectant and a barely perceptible odor of blood.

Anne lay on the hospital bed, her face as pale as paper, her long eyelashes tightly closed, and the corners of her mouth slightly pursed, as if she were still suffering in her sleep.

In the nearby rest area, two medical staff in white coats sat there, their eyes filled with helplessness and unease.

"Dr. Grant, when...when can we leave?" Nurse Leah's voice was very low and trembling.

Grant shook his head slightly, his gaze falling on the patient's monitor.

All vital signs were within the normal range. Apart from the penetrating wound in his left arm, there were no other wounds, so it was not a big deal at all.

But when they finished bandaging and receiving follow-up treatment and were about to leave the ward, they were stopped by the Blackwater bodyguards outside the door and told that they were not allowed to leave the ward.

The corridor outside the ward was now bustling with noise.

Wenger, Craig, Daphne, some people from the family office, and senior executives from various companies in New York, totaling more than twenty people, gathered in this not-so-spacious corridor.

"Dante just called me." Wenger hung up the phone and went to Ernst. "He's protesting our lockdown measures, which are severely impacting the clinic's normal operations, and he's demanding that we lift the restrictions immediately."

"Then buy this hospital for me." Ernst sat in his chair without even looking up.

Wenger nodded, understanding Ernst's attitude, and turned to leave.

After he turned and left, Daphne walked up to Ernst with her phone in hand. "Warren Buffett is calling again. Are you still not going to answer?"

Ernst slowly raised his head, his eyes as cold as frost. "I will not answer any calls from the outside world."

He paused, as if he had thought of something, and added, "Also, tell those women to just stay put and pretend nothing happened."

After Daphne left, Ernst stood up, glanced at the professional managers present, and said in a deep voice, "Go back and make preparations according to the plan we just discussed."

"I want everyone to know that if you do something wrong, you must pay the price."

"Understood." The professional managers responded in unison, without any further words, and quickly turned and left the corridor.

As everyone left, the once crowded corridor became much emptier. Ernst took a deep breath and stepped into the ward.

The moment the door opened, Grant and Leah in the ward immediately stood up. Ernst ignored them and went straight to the bedside. His gaze fell on Anne's pale face, and a hint of worry flashed in his eyes.

"Are you sure she's really alright?" he asked sternly.

Grant swallowed hard, nodded quickly, and whispered his assurance, "We have conducted a thorough examination on her. Apart from the penetrating wound in her left arm, there are no other injuries, and no signs of infection or complications."

"Then why hasn't she woken up yet?" Ernst's eyes suddenly sharpened, like two daggers, as he questioned, "More than an hour has passed since she was injured, why is she still unconscious?"

Fine beads of sweat appeared on Allen's forehead as he explained in a professional and calm tone, "The reason for the unconsciousness is mainly due to acute blood loss caused by the gunshot wound. Although the amount of bleeding is not particularly large, the body's circulating blood volume decreased sharply in a short period of time, causing systemic hypoxia and metabolic disorders, which ultimately led to the temporary loss of brain function."

"This is a stress-induced coma, which is a normal physiological response."

"You're lying to me." Ernst narrowed his eyes, making the other person shudder.

In that instant, he seemed to sense the killing intent.

"That's really true, I vouch for it with my professional ethics," he quickly assured.

Ernst's gaze fell again on Anne's bandaged left arm, his brow furrowed. "How much blood could a small penetrating wound have caused? Enough to keep her unconscious for over an hour?"

Grant's gaze unconsciously drifted to Leah beside him, and he found that Leah was looking down, her hands tightly gripping the hem of her clothes, her face pale.

Left with no other choice, he had to bite the bullet and speak again, "When we were treating Miss Anne's wounds, we found that her period had just ended and she was already in a state of relative blood loss... In addition, the severe shock caused by the shooting incident led to insufficient cerebral perfusion pressure and brain cell hypoxia, which further aggravated her coma symptoms."

Ernst finally understood: the gunshot wound caused oxygen deprivation and excessive blood loss, and she herself had given herself a double buff.

However, once Ernst confirmed that she was really alright, he felt much more at ease.

As soon as he stepped out of the ward, Craig came to greet him.

His expression was solemn, his eyes serious, completely devoid of the playful spirit he used to have.

"Any results?" Ernst asked.

Craig nodded. "We found out. A man did make a very long phone call from that phone booth around 8 p.m. last night."

"Who?"

Craig shook his head. "All we know for now is that the man ended up at MGM."

"Corkrian?" Ernst called out, but quickly dismissed it.

He should be grateful if I don't go looking for trouble with him. How could he possibly dare to provoke me? It makes no sense.

"Keep investigating. I need to know if that person is related to Koklian."

If that person is connected to Koklian, then things will be much easier.

By investigating everything about Kokrian, we can find out who's behind it all.

Ernst actually had an idea: to restore Judea.

However, he couldn't be completely sure, because of the Loli Island incident, many people might want to get rid of him.

Especially in Europe, many families don't mind using him to do their dirty work and completely disrupt the American economy.

Don't forget, the euro will be officially and fully launched in just a few days.

This will undoubtedly challenge the hegemonic status of the US dollar. The US government will inevitably take a series of measures to suppress the euro. In order to gain a foothold for the euro in the early stages, European families may take risks and divert attention by creating chaos within the United States.

And Ernst is now undoubtedly the best victim.

"Increase the reward; I'll offer 500 million to find that person."

That's where Craig comes in; cats have their ways and mice have theirs.

Muller managed to get the survivor to talk, but all he knew was that they had been in contact by phone; he had no other information.

The investigation, which traced the number, eventually led to Mesquite, Nevada, a small town northeast of Las Vegas.

Craig used his connections within the mob to get in touch with local Nevada gangs, mobilized his forces, and located the man who had spoken to the thugs on the phone the previous night.

Through a series of investigations, his vehicle was located, and it was eventually discovered that he had entered the MGM casino.

Ernst stood by the window in the corridor, his gaze passing through the glass as he looked out at the street besieged by the media and police officers, a cold smile curving his lips.

"Using someone else to do the dirty work?" he muttered to himself, a ruthless glint in his eyes. "You can do it, and so can I."

Once the evidence is found, the scope of the real culprit is narrowed down.

Ernst could use this incident to make the other party a mortal enemy of the entire Wall Street and even the United States.

After the incident, Ernst had the media spread the news that he had been shot, and now the entire news media in the United States is reporting on him.

So far, he hasn't answered a single phone call from the outside world, not even the call of concern from the person inside the White House.

He wanted to create the illusion that his injuries were very serious.

And who is the person who most wants him dead right now?

On the surface, it must be Wall Street.

"Those people on Wall Street must be feeling really uneasy right now," Ernst thought to himself with a sneer.

Although Ernst knew that Wall Street wouldn't use such a foolish tactic against him, he was now clearly telling Wall Street, "If it's not you, it's you."

I want compensation, I want damages, I want a big cut.

I don't care whether Wall Street and the forces behind it want it or not; they'll cause trouble if they don't give them any treats.

Once things have calmed down and everything has settled down, Ernst will release the evidence he has collected.

Wall Street and the families behind it, now scapegoated, will certainly not let the real culprit get away with it.