The helicopter rotors slowed into a heavy churn, their rhythm dulling as the skids settled fully onto the pad. The city's skyline stretched behind them, but it was the figure waiting on the concrete below that anchored Don's attention.
Dean Sanchez.
He stood just beyond the landing circle, his coat whipping awkwardly in the wash of the blades. The material of his suit—brown, loose, and shiny at the wrong angles—looked like something salvaged from a department store clearance rack in 1992.
It was the type of fabric that creased too easily and hung too heavily, calling to mind washed-up detectives in flickering VHS tapes. He kept fussing with it, palms running over his trousers as though patting down wrinkles would make the suit appear newer.
Don unbuckled his harness and pushed the cabin door open. The blades above continued their slow turn. Charles lingered for a moment, leaning slightly toward the cockpit.
