The helicopter ride was short. Damon didn't speak. Neither Mark nor Kate. The cold beauty had her eyes closed the entire flight, like a statue carved out of frost. The old man simply stared out the side window.
They landed inside a vast, dimly lit hangar in the middle of nowhere. A long runway stretched out beyond the heavy blast doors, and snow crunched under their boots the moment they stepped out. The air was sharp, dry, biting, each breath like swallowing shards of ice. Damon's enhanced body helped a little, but even he winced at the wind chill.
"This way," the old man said again.
A private jet was already prepped and waiting for them. Sleek, matte black, with no markings. No flag. No registration number. It didn't need any. They boarded quickly, the warmth inside a stark contrast that made the chill even more memorable.
