Late in the afternoon, my peace was shattered by the insistent beeping of my phone. Dragging myself out of the grip of sleep, I squinted at the screen, and what I saw froze me to the bone. An emergency alert, flashing with urgency, read: "URGENT: Nationwide martial law declared. Strict travel restrictions are in effect. Non-compliance subject to fines, detention. Tune into news for full details. 72-hour grace period to return to primary residence. Must show proof of residence at state borders. Stay safe. Follow instructions."

  A cold wave of dread washed over me. Martial law? Travel restrictions? This was the kind of heavy stuff that you hear about in other places, other times—not something you expect to wake up to. It was clear now; the situation was escalating faster than anyone could have predicted. The message was stark, leaving no room for doubt about the seriousness of the state's directives.

  With a long drive ahead to Montana, and only a 72-hour window to make it legally, every minute suddenly counted. My heart pounded as I thought about the checkpoints and the need to prove my residence—complications I hadn't anticipated. It was time to move, and fast. The mountains weren’t just a retreat now; they were a necessity. I had to get to that cabin, my official residence, before the grace period expired. With a deep breath, I gathered my wits and my things, ready to face whatever lay on the road ahead.

  With the clock ticking down on those three days, I scrambled to pack essentials. I stuffed a cooler with food that would last me through the journey and then dashed to the garage to prep Ruby, my trusty Jeep Rubicon, for the long haul ahead. I was just settling into the driver’s seat, my mind racing through the list of what else I might need, when my phone buzzed again.

  This time, it was my boss calling. For a split second, I considered just letting it ring. My mind was a whirlwind of plans and routes, barely leaving room for anything else. But then, that ingrained army discipline surfaced, compelling me to pick up the phone. I pressed the answer button, bracing myself for the conversation. Whatever it was, dealing with it now would be better than having it hang over me all the way to Montana.

  The phone call from my boss hit me like a thunderbolt, carrying a proposition that was almost too surreal to digest under the current circumstances. He was talking about Rick, a high-profile client for whom I had previously designed an elite security system. Rick's sprawling estate sat on Bel Air's prestigious Aric Drive, a neighborhood known for its opulence and the privacy it offered its wealthy inhabitants.

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  The urgency in my boss's voice was unmistakable as he detailed Rick's offer. It was a stark and surreal proposal: Rick, ensconced in his lavish Bel Air mansion—a property valued well over a hundred million—was ready to trade it for my modest Montana cabin, a place worth merely a sliver of his estate’s market price. The disparity in the deal was staggering, yet it spoke volumes about Rick's current state of mind.

  My skepticism was an immediate reaction. The idea that Rick, who had built his fortune maneuvering through the volatile landscapes of cryptocurrency and banking, would propose such a disproportionate trade seemed almost laughable. Yet, the urgency in my boss's voice was undeniable, lending credence to the sincerity and immediacy of the offer.

  Rick, it appeared, had crafted a strategic exit plan, capitalizing on the brief 72-hour window to legally exit California before the new travel restrictions fully clamped down. He aimed to exploit a loophole that remained in the property transfer laws—a loophole that hadn't yet been tightened in the same way as the stock market and property sales restrictions. This allowed for an emergency relocation under the guise of moving to his "primary residence," thereby sidestepping the more severe limitations on movement and financial transactions.

  This revelation painted Rick’s desperation in a new light—not merely as a flight response but as a meticulously planned maneuver to maintain his freedom amid a tightening noose of regulations. It was a calculated bid for safety that used the legal frameworks still at his disposal, showcasing his adeptness at navigating through loopholes to his advantage.

  The possibility that Rick had access to information I didn’t—a tip about the asteroid's trajectory or some impending stricter regulation—lingered in my mind. His eagerness to ditch such a luxurious stronghold for a rugged cabin suggested he might be privy to some critical, confidential insights, making his drastic measures seem more like an escape plan than mere paranoia.

  Faced with the bleak options laid out by my boss—either risk getting stuck in an interminable gridlock on my way to Montana or take refuge in one of the most opulent estates as the world potentially crumbled around us—I was cornered into considering what initially seemed an absurd proposition. The added lure of potentially securing a spot on Rick’s private jet, as a third alternative, tilted my decision towards meeting them. If the worst came to pass, that jet might be my best chance at reaching any safe haven.