As I stepped off the plane, the golden Virginia sun bathed the tarmac in light that felt deceptively warm. A breeze touched my skin—mild, but laced with that crisp, unfiltered quality I associated with countries trying too hard to feel honest.
I scanned the horizon through dark lenses, tracking the rhythmic flow of travelers. My ears, trained for inconsistencies, picked up snippets of hurried conversations, clipped footsteps, and the telltale weight of someone trailing too closely behind. Just a teenage boy. Nervous energy. Not a threat. Not yet.
Immigration was routine. My alias, Xander Volkov, held up under scrutiny. I gave the man at customs a tight smile, answering his questions with just enough American drawl to seem local. His eyes lingered on my passport, then flicked to my face. Suspicion, curiosity... nothing fatal. I gave him nothing.
Once outside, the smell of gasoline and jet fuel faded, replaced by something else—fresh asphalt and faint honeysuckle. I hailed a taxi, slipping into the backseat as I scanned the license plate and rearview mirror instinctively. No hidden cams. No second driver. Standard city cab.
The driver was a broad-chested man with sun-leathered skin and a radio set to local country. He grinned at me in the mirror.
"Welcome to Virginia! You look like a man on a mission. Where to?"
"Car dealership." I kept my voice flat, tone low.
He chuckled, shifting into drive. "You a car guy?"
"No."
He didn't take the hint. "You from around here?"
"No."
A pause. "Moving in?"
I finally looked at him. Not long enough to make it personal. "Work."
He hummed, clearly not used to passengers who spoke in monosyllables. I ignored the chatter that followed—a cousin who welded for a living, the price of gas, something about football—and let my focus drift outward. The route twisted through the city's arteries. I counted surveillance cameras, scanned rooftops for high angles, and marked every alley, fire escape, and unlit corner.
Thirty minutes later, the car pulled to a stop. The dealership sprawled before me in neat lines of polished metal and manufactured dreams.
"$25," the driver said.
I handed him $40. "Keep it."
He brightened. "Thanks, buddy! Enjoy that ride."
I stepped out without a word. The moment my boots hit the pavement, I felt the tension in my shoulders ease. Briefly. Until a movement from inside the glass-walled sales office caught my eye. A woman—early twenties, brunette, watching me.
The door chimed softly as I entered.
"Hi there!" she greeted, standing. "Welcome to Haven Motors. How can I help you?"
Her voice was breathy, like she'd been rehearsing it in a mirror. Her eyes lingered, scanning me in a way most men would call flattering. I called it an unnecessary distraction.
"My name's on the paperwork. Xander Volkov. Here to pick up the vehicle I purchased online."
She blinked, trying to keep up. "Oh! Yes, of course. Give me one moment."
She turned to the computer, fingers tapping too fast, almost nervous. I used the moment to study the room—one camera, visibly fake. Exit to the left, emergency exit in the back. Fire extinguisher too far from the desk to be useful. She slid the keys toward me, smiling again.
"Third row, second from the left. It's a beauty."
I nodded, heading for the lot.
She followed. Of course she did.
"I'm Jasmine," she offered, jogging slightly to keep up. "Let me know if you need anything."
I ignored the comment, scanning the vehicle. A quick inspection of the undercarriage, engine, and interior told me it was clean. Unbugged.
As I turned to open the door, she knocked softly on the window, a slip of paper in her hand.
"um... You're kinda hot, you know that?", she bit her lower lip, leaning forward so I got a view of her cleavage. I took in her face,brown doe eyes, tanned skin, lush brown hair, potty lips and deceitful.
"I meant what I said when I asked if you needed anything"
Her voice was dipped in sugar.
"My phone number " she cooed as she let the piece of paper drop on the passenger seat.
I stared at the paper, then at her. Said nothing. Rolled up the window and drove off.
The car purred beneath me as I pulled onto the main road. It was a smooth, controlled growl—quiet enough not to draw attention, powerful enough for a fast exit. The GPS led me through suburban neighborhoods lined with trees, their leaves heavy with summer.
Fifteen minutes later, I turned down a quiet street and pulled up in front of a single-story bungalow. Small porch. Narrow garden. No neighbors in sight. A temporary base. Quiet. Replaceable.
The realtor was already waiting. Middle-aged. Frizzy curls. Yellow blouse. Smile too bright.
"Welcome to your new home, Mr...?"
"Xander."
I took the keys from her, avoiding unnecessary conversation. She offered a tour. I declined.
Once inside, I locked the door behind me and stood in the entryway, silent. Listening. One breath. Two. The refrigerator clicked. Pipes shifted in the walls. No human movement.
Safe.
The house was modest. minimalistic. Sparse. But efficient. Wood floors. Clean lines. No cameras. No bugs. I checked anyway. Habit.
I set up my laptop in the far corner of the bedroom, facing the door and window. While it booted, I unzipped the duffel bag I'd carried through customs. Inside, nestled beneath a change of clothes and a copy of The Catcher in the Rye, was a locked black case. Unmarked. Untouched. For now.
I sat down at the desk, fingers gliding over the keys. My new "job" would require digital credibility. Freelance tech consultant, part-time writer. It was the perfect cover—isolated, anonymous, and malleable.
Tomorrow, I'd start building that life.
Tonight, I slept with one eye open.