Omar lifted the door and Ranglen entered, followed by Omar who slid in beside him onto sleek and luxurious upholstery that had that delicious new-vehicle smell.
A man sat across from him in subdued light.
His hair stood out first, a thin cap of distinguished white-gray. Then his face, chiseled, roughly etched by what must be a brutal history, an age with a toll not in years but in intensity. The eyes shone a disconcerting pale brown, almost golden, like dark glass. He looked freshly shaved, not a trace of the gray-white hair on his overly bronzed skin. His immaculate outfit was costly but not showy—a full-sleeved white silk shirt, a dark red vest-like wrap, beige pants with no trace of wrinkle. He looked like his car, with a similar hint of monkish aggression. The power and affluence of
