The rain was falling in sheets, turning the world into a blur of gray and black.
We didn't sneak in. We didn't tunnel. We landed the stolen helicopter right on the helipad of the Governor's Mansion, the rotors chopping through the downpour.
It was a power move. We were telling him: We aren't hiding.
We stepped out onto the wet pavement.
Cassian took the lead, limping slightly but moving with the dangerous grace of a predator. Rook flanked him, his rifle raised, scanning the shadows. Sienna stayed near the chopper door, ready to fly or fight. Clara walked beside me. She wasn't shivering, despite the cold rain soaking her dress. She was staring at the man waiting for us by the garden trellis.
Vittorio.
He stood under a large black umbrella held by a silent guard. He looked older than he had on TV. His face was gaunt, his eyes hollowed out by sleepless nights. The sling on his arm was soaked.
