ELENA
Two days later, wheels touched down on a private airstrip.
The landing was smooth — controlled — the kind executed by pilots who understood discretion mattered as much as precision.
Roman and I stepped off the Bureau-chartered Citation in civilian clothes.
No tactical gear. No badges clipped visibly to belts.
Just anonymity.
I wore dark jeans, a fitted hoodie layered over a lightweight tactical vest concealed beneath it.
Roman opted for a black button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms, paired with a leather jacket that made him look more like a private security consultant than a federal agent.
We both carried nondescript duffel bags.
Inside mine were essentials: encrypted laptop, surveillance equipment, backup phone, concealed weapon registered under federal authority, and documentation for our cover identities.
No visible indication that we were federal investigators.
Just two exhausted professionals arriving in California under ordinary circumstances.
A black Suburban waited on the tarmac.
Tinted windows. No agency markings.
License plates registered to a shell corporation used for covert transportation.
The driver leaned against the vehicle casually — jeans, baseball cap, sunglasses.
He looked like a ride-share contractor.
He was one.
And an agent.
When we approached, he offered a brief nod.
“Welcome to California.”
Nothing more.
No unnecessary conversation.
Roman opened the rear door.
I slid inside first.
He followed, placing his duffel between us like a physical buffer — strategic space rather than comfort.
The door shut.
The vehicle pulled away smoothly from the airstrip.
Forty minutes of driving stretched ahead of us.
Freeways bled into surface streets.
