The helicopter blades were already turning when Luther stepped onto the rooftop.
The wind pulled at his shirt and coat, flattening the fabric against his body. A crewman in a headset glanced over and lifted a hand in greeting, then went back to checking something on the console. No one asked who he was. This kind of place didn't let strangers walk up to their helicopters.
At the far end of the pad, three men in dark coats stood in a loose line, waiting.
They didn't wave at him and they didn't look impatient either.
"Doctor Thorne," the one in the middle said when Luther approached.
He was in his forties, neat hair, clean-shaven, the kind of face that would look just as normal in a board meeting as it did here at dawn.
Luther set his bag down for a moment to zip it properly, then picked it up again. "How long has he been unstable?"
"Since just after we called you," the man said. "We've kept him alive. Barely."
"Vitals?"
