Chapter 7 :Gulfstream G650ER

"Is he here?" Justin Maddox asked, his voice tinged with curiosity.

"No, he's waiting at SpaceY headquarters," Jared Burchall replied, his tone smooth.

"California?" Justin raised an eyebrow.

"Yep. We just flew in from there," Burchall added.

Justin glanced at the wall clock—7:10 p.m. His brow furrowed. "You're kidding. My video went up six hours ago. Two thousand miles? No way a plane's that fast."

Burchall's lips curved into a faint smile. "We took a private jet."

Private jet. Justin's pulse quickened. He'd never set foot on one. A chance like this? Unreal.

"Alright, when do we leave?" he asked, leaning forward.

Burchall's face lit up, pleased. "Now."

"Cool, but..." Justin paused, calculating. "Round trip, I'll need two, maybe three days off. That's gonna cost me. Any... compensation?" If Elon Musk wanted him this badly, he wasn't going empty-handed.

Ronan Voss snorted, his eyes fixed on his coffee, disdain radiating.

Burchall, unfazed, grinned. "Of course. Name your price."

Justin's mind raced. His daily wage was $150. Five hundred seemed fair. He held up five fingers.

"Five grand? Done." Burchall didn't blink. He reached into his suit jacket, pulled out a thick stack of $100 bills, and started counting them out, each note crisp against the table.

Justin's throat tightened, his eyes glued to the cash. Five thousand?

Burchall paused mid-count, glancing up. "Screw it. Let's make it ten. Saves the hassle." He slid the entire stack across.

Justin took it, the bills warm in his hand, heavier than he'd imagined. Ten grand. He'd lowballed himself, big time. Good thing he hadn't spoken first.

"Got your money. We good to go?" Voss said, his voice cold, cutting through the moment.

"I gotta clear it with my manager," Justin said, playing up a helpless shrug.

"Where is he?" Voss's patience was razor-thin.

Justin pointed to the counter.

Voss stalked over, flashed his badge with a flick of his wrist. "FBI Special Agent in Charge. I need to take Justin Maddox with me."

The manager's eyes darted to Justin, a mix of confusion and judgment. Justin's gut twisted. "It's an invitation!" he called out, jumping in. "Helping with a case." He shot Voss a pointed look.

"Yeah, that's right," Voss said, grudgingly backing him up.

The manager's skepticism lingered, but he nodded, relenting.

Back at the table, Justin tugged at his chef's coat, glancing at Burchall. "Do I need to shower, change?"

"No time," Burchall said, brisk. "We're on a clock."

Justin's thoughts snagged on Sasha, his husky. "Wait. I've got a dog. Can I bring him?"

Voss's eyes flashed. "Enough! Don't push it."

Burchall shook his head, apologetic. "Not practical."

"Fine, give me a sec to sort him out." Justin turned, heading for Jessica, who was prepping plates outside the kitchen.

Burchall's voice followed, low and firm. "Keep this meeting under wraps."

Justin nodded without looking back. At Jessica's side, he pressed his house keys into her hand. "Jess, I'm headed to California with these guys. One or two days. Can you feed Sasha?"

Her brow creased. "What's going on?"

"FBI needs me for a case," he lied, scrambling. "Old friend from New York, some trouble."

"You okay?" Worry flickered in her eyes.

"I'm good. Just assisting. Plus, there's a bonus." He pulled the cash stack from his pocket, peeled off five $100 bills, and offered them. "For Sasha. Twice a day."

Jessica pushed them back. "No way. I don't need it."

"Take it. I'm flush now." He stuffed the bills into her hand, flashing a grin. "Bike's parked here. Should be fine. Gotta go."

"Be careful," she said, her voice soft.

"Will do. See ya." Justin turned, joining Voss and Burchall as they exited the restaurant.

At the curb, a police cruiser waited. Justin frowned. "A cop car?"

Voss smirked. "What, you expect the president's Cadillac One?"

Justin chuckled, sliding into the back. The car sped toward Kerrville's small airfield, pulling straight onto the tarmac where a sleek private jet gleamed under floodlights.

Justin's jaw dropped. He recognized it instantly. "Holy shit. That's... that's Musk's Gulfstream G..."

"G650ER," Burchall finished, amused.

Gulfstream G650ER. One of the world's fastest, priciest business jets—$70 million, Musk's pride, hyped in every interview. Justin had expected a generic plane, not this. His fingers itched for his phone, craving a selfie with the legend.

He reached for it, but Voss snatched it from his hand. "What're you doing?"

"Photo. Gotta flex this online," Justin said, half-grinning.

"Confidential, remember?" Voss pocketed the phone. "I'm holding onto this."

"You—" Justin bit back a curse, glaring at Burchall for backup.

Burchall shrugged. "He's right. No photos. You'll get it back in three hours, when we land."

Justin swallowed his frustration, outranked. He boarded the jet, his eyes wide at the opulent interior—plush leather, polished wood, a cabin fit for a king. He ran a hand over a seat, awestruck. This is Musk's world.

"Sit there," Burchall said, pointing.

Justin sank into the seat, Voss and Burchall taking theirs. Both men closed their eyes, silent, resting with practiced ease. Justin's excitement kept him buzzing at first, soaking in the jet's takeoff, the town shrinking below. But fatigue crept in, the hum of the engines lulling him. His eyelids drooped, and he drifted into sleep.