Elsencio was notorious among the Border Patrol for its unforgiving terrain—jagged rock formations, endless dunes of shifting sand, and valleys where scorching wind whipped dust devils into mesmerizing spirals. The region was difficult for vehicles to traverse, which made it ideal for traffickers seeking hidden routes. Lena had been briefed that morning about possible suspicious movement, but details were sparse—merely rumors of footprints or tire marks that vanished among the dunes.

She spent the first few hours scouting from one vantage point to another. Nothing stirred except for the occasional desert fox or a hawk riding invisible thermals. The radio crackled once or twice with station updates, but everything sounded routine.

She dismounted her bike near the remains of an old supply outpost—just a few rusted metal sheets and a collapsed shelter that might once have held water barrels or basic rations. As Lena moved in, she noticed footprints in the sand. Not fresh, but not completely eroded by the wind either. She crouched low, running her gloved fingers across the indentations. They looked like boot prints—possibly three or four pairs—heading deeper into the scrub.