The weight of it wasn’t heavy.
It was grounding.
A Benchmade Infidel folding knife sat secured inside my right boot — accessible with one practiced movement.
Under my jacket was Level IIIA soft body armor, thin but reinforced, rated to stop most handgun rounds.
Around my wrist — disguised as a simple accessory — was a panic signal device that transmitted my coordinates directly to command.
The encrypted comms earpiece remained discreetly tucked inside my ear.
I wasn’t defenseless anymore.
I had tools.
Authority. Backup.
I let the silence between us stretch for a beat — long enough for tension to settle — then I turned slightly and spoke casually, my voice cutting through the bass just enough to reach him.
“It seems you’re not doing too bad, Vasquez.”
The effect was immediate.
He reacted like I had struck him.
His body jerked.
He turned toward me so fast the movement betrayed him.
For half a second — just one — his composure collapsed.
His jaw dropped.
Pure shock.
Eyes widened. Color drained from his face.
“Elena...”
He said my name like it was both a confirmation and a denial.
Like seeing me alive disrupted whatever narrative he had constructed around his supposed death.
I smirked faintly.
“A ghost resurrecting from a plane crash,” I said calmly. “How interesting.”
The bartender finally approached, wiping his hands on a towel as he looked between us.
He sensed tension.
But didn’t understand its origin.
“Ma’am, what can I get you?”
His tone was professional.
Detached.
