I boarded the small turboprop plane and watched the lights of El Paso shrink below us.

The flight was bumpy, the wind coming off the mountains tossing the aircraft as we flew north.

We landed in Albuquerque just as the sun broke over the Sandia Mountains.

The air here was different—crisp, thin, and carrying the scent of pine.

I walked quickly to the rental car counter.

“I need a four-wheel-drive vehicle,” I told the agent. “Something that can handle rough dirt roads.”

She handed me the keys to a dusty silver SUV.

I loaded my duffel bag into the trunk and started the engine.

The drive north was long and quiet.

The flat desert scrub slowly gave way to rolling hills, then to steep, rocky canyons.

I kept my phone on the dashboard, watching for any messages from Voss or Dorian.

Nothing came.

The silence felt heavy, like the pressure before a storm.

Two hours into the drive, I turned off the main highway onto a two-lane state road.

The asphalt was cracked, patches of gravel rattling against the wheel wells.