Don didn't need to think long.
His answer was silent—but it was there. Solid. Decided.
After that, the two of them spent the remaining time sharpening their story—cutting the edges, adjusting the angles. It wasn't hard. Both of them knew how to control a narrative. The challenge wasn't shaping the truth. It was deciding which pieces of it to kill.
Charles did most of the talking after that. Details. Names. A few personalities Don might expect at the meeting.
He didn't name them like colleagues.
He named them like chess pieces.
—
By the time 2 p.m. rolled around, the helicopter was already cutting through the air above Santos City.
Don sat on one side of the cabin. Charles on the other.
Neither of them said a word.
From their view, the city looked even more bruised than usual. Cracked roads. Thin lines of smoke in the distance. Chopper shadows cutting across windows below.
The closer they got to SHQ, the more noticeable the protests became.
