I looked at her.

Her face was pale, but her eyes were steady.

“It’s a long drive,” I said.

“I’ll get my coat,” she replied.

I packed my laptop, the folders, and Daniel’s letter into the duffel bag.

I reached into the bottom drawer of the desk and pulled out my service weapon.

The cold metal of the Beretta felt heavy in my hand.

I checked the magazine, slid it back into the grip, and chambered a round.

I engaged the safety and tucked the weapon into my holster.

“Let’s go,” I said.

We walked out of the house into the cool California night.

The air was damp with coastal fog, smelling of salt and eucalyptus.

I unlocked the SUV and we climbed inside.

I started the engine, the dashboard lights illuminating our faces.

I plugged the coordinates into the vehicle’s GPS.

The screen calculated the route, showing a four-hour drive south into the desert.

As we backed out of the driveway, I noticed a pair of headlights turn on at the end of the street.