James Rodriguez

Cluster of people stood near the hangar entrance.

Seven figures.

Six team members.

Plus Wilson.

I watched them for a moment before approaching cataloguing postures and interactions the way I'd been trained to do in the Air Force.

Old habits.

The tallest figure broke away and strode toward me.

And Sir Wilson wore the same expression of controlled impatience I'd seen in his office, though he traded the bespoke suit for what looked like five dollars, zero expedition, wear pants with too many pockets, jacket with unnecessary reinforcements, everything pristine and unused.

Rodriguez.

Good.

He checked his watch.

Everyone's here.

Let's make introductions and get moving.

I followed him to the group.

They'd already separated into natural configurations.

The two security contractors standing slightly apart, equipment at their feet.

The scientists clustered together with tablets and notebooks.

One man standing alone, arms crossed.

Wilson made perfunctory introductions, gesturing to each person in turn.

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