The lights of Rio de Janeiro from five thousand feet looked like spilled diamonds across an undulating expanse of black velvet. However, for Mateo Rossi, that beauty was a glittering death trap. Down below, millions of people were celebrating life adorned in feathered costumes and the thumping rhythm of Samba that could shake the very foundations of the earth, while up here, The Sparrow was dying. The jet's right engine sputtered, coughing out its last vestiges of power before completely surrendering to gravity.
"I don't need a pretty landing; I just need one that doesn't turn us into shish kebabs," Mateo mumbled. Sweat streamed down from beneath his temples, soaking his collar, which was already stiff with grime and oil stains. His eyes were bloodshot, staring blankly towards Avenida Atl
